


Murder The Dawn

by Crowdaughter



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, M/M, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowdaughter/pseuds/Crowdaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gûl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.</p>
<p>-  But what if Legolas were to take the Ring?</p>
<p><span class="u">Warnings</span>: implied slash, gore, horror, and  <span class="u">character death</span>. <i>I mean it!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro and Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**Murder The Dawn**  
_a **very dark** Mael-Gûl-AU / spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
**I. Introduction**  
  
Authors Note:   
This story is a very grim AU spin-off of my _Mael-Gûl_ universe, in which Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven Realms as slaves, and Legolas is Aragorn's slave, bound to him by a cruel spell. This fic was inspired by a discussion with one of my reviewers of the main story, Randy, who also kindly volunteered to beta for this one. It is set before the background of the main story and explores one single idea: _What if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_ This fic starts out in the night after the Mael-Gûl chapter 'Respite'.  
  
_However_ , for those of you who have not read _"Mael-Gûl"_ , I added a prologue to this fic that gives part of the background information of this particular alternative universe. If you have not read my main story before, but are willing to take a ride on the dark side with this one, be my guest! Enjoy!   
  
If you **have** already read _"Mael-Gûl"_ , you might want to skip the prologue and start directly with chapter 1.  
  
**Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash (m/m), BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature. Strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Many thanks to Randy, who inspired this spin-off and volunteered to beta, and who did wonders to make this story better. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
Disclaimer: The universe I play in is not mine, nor are the characters; I just borrow without permission. I make no money out of this. Lord of the Rings and the world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien and is owned by the Tolkien Estate, and the movies were made by Peter Jackson. My story universe of Mael-Gûl was inspired by Bluegold's story "Bound", which can be found [here](http://daemel.freespaces.com/authors.html#blue). I use similar plot ideas with her permission. The idea of the _Mael-Gûl_ , or _Rhach e-Maelangwedh_ (Lust-Spell, Curse of Lustchain) however is entirely mine. _However_ , this particular story is a **grim** AU to my main story universe. You have been warned!  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. But what if Legolas indeed took the Ring?   
  
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
_// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ "speech"; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
  
_______________________

  
****  
  
II. Prologue  
  
  
_Of the History of the Elves, Library of Mithlond, Fourth Age (unknown historian):_  
  
"The Third Age of Middle Earth was a time of great sorrow, and it saw the corruption of the Elven Realms.   
  
The Last Alliance brought about the defeat of Sauron, and the One Ring was claimed by Isildur, only to become lost along with him. The Elves, thinking it gone, began to use the three Elven Rings. But they were wrong in their belief that the Three were pure, because in truth all rings had been touched by Sauron. Using them, their bearers became corrupted. Only Cirdan, who had never used his ring, escaped. And so, only a few decades after the end of the Second Age, there was war again, and it took the ugly face of Kinslaying.   
  
Elrond and Galadriel blamed the Elves of Greenwood the Great for the death of Gil-galad in the Last Alliance, claiming that without Oropher's stubborn refusal to follow the command of Gil-galad, and thus the untimely loss of two thirds of his warriors, the whole war would have taken another course, being won sooner and leaving Gil-galad alive at the end. Thranduil, Oropher's son and king of the Greenwood following his death, was held responsible for the disaster on the Gladden Fields, for it was due to Thranduil's tardiness that so many Orcs had been hiding in the southern Greenwood and could prepare the ambush that led to Isildur's death and the loss of the One Ring. The rulers of Imladris and of Rivendell said the Greenwood Elves had caused all this by their constant disobedience and failure to cooperate with the Noldor. So, the Noldorin dominated realm of Rivendell and its allied realm of Lothlorien attacked Thranduil of Eryn Galen, later known as Taur-nu-fuin.   
  
The Greenwood Elves fought bravely, but they had lost two thirds of their warriors in the War of the Last Alliance, and they had neither the numbers not the strength to match their opponents. They were beaten into submission. Thranduil had to pay homage, and was forced to give tribute and hostages once every yen. Those hostages were kept as slaves.   
  
For even after the defeat and subjugation of the Greenwood Elves, the rulers of Lothlorien and Imladris were not satisfied, but determined to keep them under their harsh rule. Elrond and Galadriel were to blame the Greenwood Elves for the renewed multiplication of Orcs after the first millenium of the Third Age had passed; they blamed them for the new darkness in the south of the Greenwood, which then came to be called Mirkwood by mortal men. It was Orcs who finally caught and tortured Celebrian, the wife of Elrond, wounding her so grievously that she fled Middle Earth for Valinor. Thus, the two Elven rulers found ever new reasons to keep the Greenwood Elves in subjugation and take hostages from them.  
  
Some of the hostages were of noble birth, among them most of the members of Thranduil's family. One of these hostages was Thranduil's youngest son, Legolas, who was taken by Elrond and used by him as a pleasure slave. Later, Elrond decided to give this slave to his adopted human son: Aragorn, destined to become the king of men. Aragorn was afflicted by a grim curse: he needed his lovers suffering in pain to reach his own completion. And to make sure Legolas would serve his mortal master faithfully, he was bound to him by a cruel spell, that made his life dependent on the attentions of his master. But on the day when Aragorn went on the quest to destroy the One Ring, he took his Elven slave with him..."   
  
  
________________ o _____________  


  
\-- TBC --  
  
  
Notes:   
  
A _yen_ is the Elven year, which lasts 144 human years. At the time the story takes place there have been about 20 yeni since Mirkwood was defeated. And every yen Mirkwood has to give away 12 hostages...   
  
_Mael-Gûl - Sindarin_ , literally: Lust-Spell. _Mael_ means physical lust or pleasure; _Gûl_ has the meaning of sorcery, as in _Morgûl_.


	2. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

  
_a **very dark** Mael-Gûl AU / spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
 **Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_  
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
 _// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ "speech"; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
  
 _  
Pain inside is rising  
I am the fallen one  
A figure in an old game  
No jokers on my side  
I plunged into misery  
I'll turn off the light  
And murder the dawn  
  
Blind Guardian: Mordred's Song_  
  
  
  
 **Part I**  
  
  
He is dead before he knows it.  
  
I give him no time to react. He just asks sleepily: "What is it, Little Leaf?" as I move carefully against him and bring my rolled-up blanket up to his throat. He does not really wake – then his eyes open wide as I cut his throat and muffle any sound he could make with my hand. He buckles once - in the next instant, my knife finds his heart.  
  
I know his body far too well to miss, even from behind. One stab, clean. I would have done it before I made that mess with his neck, but I had to make sure he could not scream, even had I missed. And I know how fast he could be under attack.  
  
If you wish to kill a ranger, you had better do it before he gets the chance to fight or warn the others.  
  
Just one short moment, and it is over. He shudders, then he slumps against me. Boromir has not seen it. He has just turned away to glare jealously out into the night again.  
  
The sudden scent of blood nearly makes me gag. I can only hope it will not alert the pony, hobbled as it is some ten paces away close to the Hobbits. At least I hope it will not alert the beast until it is too late. It would not do if the horses reaction were to alert the man of Gondor.  
  
Luckily, for now, the horse stays calm. Good thing the rolled-up blanket stopped most of the blood gushing out.  
Good thing, too, that Estel purged last evening, before we went away from the camp together, or the scent would be worse. It is bad enough already without that peculiar element of bodily control giving way in death.  
  
But I cannot linger on that, now. The less I think about last night, the better. The thoughts will come, no doubt, and with them the regret. But now is not the time.  
  
I have another Adan yet to kill, tonight.  
  
I make a show of getting up, tucking the one I have just killed carefully under the blanket he and I snuggled under most of the night. Boromir looks at me. He does not see the dark stain on the blanket, and he does not wonder at the fact that we used only one blanket for coverage. Nor does he see the blood still flowing out the dead one's throat; luckily, Aragorn slept with his back to the other man. Boromir watches me rise and scowls as I cover the ranger's body lovingly under the cloth again. He does not know how strange it is that Aragorn does not seem to wake as I disentangle myself from his body, that he does not even move.  
  
 _Boromir does not know._  
  
He is astonished, though, when I come over to him. Astonished and delighted. The stupid man has no idea what I intend, his mind too clouded by desire to think clearly. When I settle beside him, he willingly makes room for me.  
  
He still thinks I am nothing but a bed-toy, something to use at whim. He is about to learn better, although he does not knows it yet.  
  
Of course, it is the last thing he will ever learn.  
  
We chat a bit. I tell him I could not forget the other night, when I was in his arms. That there was no comparing of his gentle touch and skill in the arts of love to Aragorn's much less desirable demands. That I was glad I could soon be with him again.  
  
For a moment, I fear I said too much, that I had raised his distrust. But his frown only lasts a moment, then he quickly shakes off whatever doubts he might have nursed, and reaches out to me. He seems far too willing to believe that I cannot resist him and that he is by far the better lover. He accepts my kiss, blinded by his desire.  
  
I taste the blood in his mouth when he falls, see his look of alarm and betrayal. Yet it is too late, he dies, his strangled scream caught within my mouth. My knife has found his heart in an instant.  
  
He slumps against me, and I arrange for him to sit as if he dozed off on his watch. There is little blood; heart wounds do not cause much bleeding. A sharp scent betrays the fact that his body functions have ceased to work forever.  
  
I move away and get my other weapons.  
  
Two down; six to go.  
  
The Dwarf has been of some concern to me. Luckily, while Aulë made his people strong and sturdy, he did not give them light sleep, or sharp ears. I know the stunted one is clad in armor that he does not even put off to sleep, and I do not even think of trying to shoot him or find his heart with my knife. A quick cut through the throat, though, deep enough to nearly separate his head from his torso, works even though I have to tug his beard out of the way. He gurgles, once. It is not loud enough to wake the Hobbits.  
  
Or the wizard.  
  
I take no chances with the wizard. Two arrows, one to his heart, one to his head, shot too fast for him to react, take care of him. And still, he moves! I add a third arrow for good measure, and only then do I dare to step near, kicking the staff away out of his hand.  
  
If you have to kill a wizard, you had better do it from a distance.  
  
A gasp behind me, and a shriek, alerts me to the fact that my deeds have been discovered. I turn and stare into the horrified eyes of Frodo. He screams again, waking the others.  
  
I do not hesitate.  
  
I regret deeply what I must do; Frodo and all the other Hobbits have been nothing but kind to me, and done their best to improve my situation, defending me against the Dwarf and both the men. I thank them poorly.  
  
But I cannot stop now, and I cannot spare them. I cannot allow them to live; they would alert Lothlorien too soon, or would go back to Rivendell, with the same effect. Besides, that thing which Frodo carries is the thing I need to get.  
  
There is no going back now, and if I want to go through with my plan I have no choice. I cannot let them get away, and I do not have the time for a long hunt. Not after Estel's death.  
  
My days are numbered.  
  
I do not give them time to flee, or even beg. Four arrows, in quick succession. Frodo falls, but the arrow does not pierce him; instead it glances off without doing him harm. I do not even stop to think about this; I cannot allow him to don the ring and disappear, I have to make sure that he is dead. The next arrow is on its way already, and it hits him right in the forehead. He lies prone, hands stretched out, undoubtedly fallen. A scream alerts me to his companions. Sam rushes to his master and is stopped by an arrow in his heart. Merry goes down with one embedded in his throat. Pippin starts to run, and gets a few feet away; he nearly reaches the bushes before my arrow finds his back and sends him down. He whimpers; the arrow has not killed him yet.  
  
Three strides and I am there. I turn him around.  
  
Pippin is dying already, choking on his own blood. Yet his eyes are clear, and they meet mine. They are full of hurt and betrayal.  
  
His mouth forms a single word, without uttering a sound. I read it from his lips, anyway.  
  
"Why?"  
  
I do not bother to answer. I just whisper a short "I am sorry!" before I cut his throat.  
  
He would not understand the answer, anyway. He and the other three were caught up in a war that is not theirs and that is far too old and too cruel for them to understand. I feel regret that I could not spare them. But the freedom of my people is at stake, and the lives of four Hobbits do not count as much compared to that.  
  
Nor does mine.  
  
I look at him again. My stomach churns. It is all I can do to scramble a few steps away, before my body betrays me. The cramps are few, but violent; I leave what meager meal I had there on the grass.  
  
It lasts only a moment, then I can force myself under control again. I rise, disgusted.  
  
 _I have no time for that, now!_ Besides, this was hardly the first time I ever had to kill.  
  
Of course, I never before killed a friend, or an innocent.  
  
But I cannot linger on that, now. With Pippin dead, I turn back to Frodo and search him for the Ring, the prize for which he and his cousins had to die tonight.  
  
The Ring is already in his hand. He was not fast enough to put it on, or all of this would have turned out quite differently. I take it and place it carefully back onto its chain, which I fasten around my neck.  
  
The Ring feels cool to the touch, and yet its song is full of dark satisfaction, maleficent pleasure; it is nearly humming. Triumphant. It makes me sick to have it close.  
  
However, that thing might be the only chance for my people. Their freedom is a prize worth even the murder of my comrades, or the salvation of my own féa. And of course, my life.  
  
There is no going back, now. I have to succeed.  
  
Then I search Frodo, quickly, curious what might have caused my arrow to deflect. I frown.  
  
Under his shirt the Hobbit wears another. A mithril shirt.  
  
 _ **I know that shirt.**_ Know it only too well. Bilbo must have given it to him. I knew the older Hobbit had it, and he showed it to me once when I was in Rivendell. But a long time before that, centuries ago, it belonged to a certain Elven prince who wore it on an ill-fated secret journey intended to send him off to Valinor, to safety. A scheme that failed. Horribly.  
  
Just as Frodo's mission has failed, now...  
  
I leave the shirt where it is now, and rise. A noise behind me alarms me, and I turn.  
  
It is the pony. Sweating, trembling, rolling his eyes, frightened by the scent of blood. There is no way that I will calm the beast, covered in blood as I am now.  
  
For a moment I contemplate killing the poor animal, too, then I decide against it. The pony cannot talk. At least, not in a way the Rivendell Noldor will understand.  
  
It has been long since I have learned that they do not understand birds and beasts and cannot hear the Tree-Song anymore. Their arrogance has made them deaf both to the Trees and to most of the beasts of nature. For a long time, I wondered about that.  
  
Now, though, it will work to my advantage.  
  
I hear a groan behind me and whip around.  
  
I stare in disbelief, but only for a heartbeat. Then I am there, and my knives are out again before the Istar has a chance to rise.  
  
They are hard to kill, Istari. But I am quick. And this time, I am also very thorough.  
  
He reaches for the staff. I kick it out of reach once more and my knives descent, cutting cleanly. Gandalf's head hits the ground with a thud. I kick it away, just to make sure there is some distance between it and his corpse.  
  
If you are going to kill a wizard, you had best make sure he stays dead.  
  
I quickly look around, then I go and free the pony. It runs away, too frightened to be calmed, and I let it go. Then I search the bodies.  
  
Gandalf's corpse reveals an interesting thing. There is a chain under his clothes, formerly worn around the neck, on which I find a ring, apparently worn much like the One was worn by Frodo, and is now worn by me. There is a sense of power about it; in fact the ring resting on my chest now is answering its call and growing warm. There is a sense of recognition, and of satisfaction. It takes me but a moment to understand.  
  
So this must be one of the Three, and Gandalf was its keeper. But why did he not wear it on his finger? Why did he wear it only like Frodo wore the One?  
  
Yet I have not the time to ponder this. I take the chain and clean it at the wizard's clothes, then I place it next to the One around my neck. I am not foolish enough to put the wizard's Ring on; I do not know what it will cost me to bend it to my will, and I have not the time now to find out.  
  
I have an errand to fulfill.  
  
There is a small bottle of Miruvor I find in Gandalf's pack, no doubt intended to enhance our strength, should it be needed. That one I take with me. I do not find anything of interest among the other bodies. Only one more thing do I take with me; another ring, that one off Estel's corpse. The ring of Barahir joins the one Gandalf wore, since it is the wrong size for me to wear it in another way.  
  
It has no power whatsoever, but it is the last thing of Estel that now remains with me and I cannot bear to leave it for the enemy to find.  
  
Or for the scouts of Rivendell, should they find him here.  
  
When I search Estel, and get my supplies and everything else what still may be of use to me from our gear, I am hit by the expression on his face. The eyes are glassy now, unseeing, staring, but the face still wears that expression of complete disbelief, and of pain and betrayal. I killed him nearly too fast for the lack of air by the cut throat to take great effect, but the panic is there, too.  
  
It is hard for me to bear his stare and I reach to close his eyes. I can almost hear his thoughts inside my head.  
  
 _'Why, Little Leaf? Why now? Why after what we shared last night?'  
  
Oh, Estel! _  
  
As if it were important how we spent last night. It would not have made any difference had he tortured me again, or if I had been forced to spend the night with Boromir, or even with the Dwarf. The only thing that matters is that we are now far enough away from Rivendell, but close enough to Caradhras, and every day we walk from now will take us farther away from that pass. I would have done it earlier, in fact, but shortly after we left Rivendell I was in no shape to succeed or make the journey.  
  
It was _you_ who had made sure of that, remember?  
  
Yet he is dead, his féa gone, and it is too soon for his ghost to berate me. The berating will come, no doubt, and soon, when withdrawal kicks in and I grow mad with need and visions.  
  
Maybe, if the féar of men should be allowed to linger for a time within the Halls of Mandos before they pass on, we can meet again there for one last time and I can truly speak with him once more before we are parted forever. There are quite a few things I wished to say to him which I never got the chance to say to him in life.  
  
But that time is not now.  
  
Since Estel fed the spell last night I have three weeks that will remain to me until the need will drive me insane and the poison will affect my body too much to go on. Maybe even more; I never before tried running in that state. Or maybe less. Since Estel has just extended the spell again, I do not know how much the bond was tightened.  
  
I suppose I will find out.  
  
I take his waterskin in addition to mine and all our combined supplies. I regret that he has nothing of the Lembas left, or of the Miruvor. There is not much beside that I can use; his cloak is caked with blood, and so is his blanket. For that matter, so is mine. But I take the blanket used by Boromir, which will do nicely. Besides, I do not plan on sleeping much, or to take rest any more than I have to.  
  
On my journey I will hardly have any time for that. Besides, I have no need to spare my body with rest, for once I have reached my destination, I do not need to be alive much longer.  
  
I do not leave the bodies where they are. To bury them I have not time nor strength, but I do roll them in their blankets and drag them from the glade into the undergrowth. It is not much, and I doubt it will keep away the carrion birds for long, but there is hardly any sense in revealing what I have done to the creatures of the enemy at once.  
  
I doubt it will stay a secret for a long time, anyway. There is not much I can do about the Mirror of Galadriel, and all my hope now rests in being faster than the hunters they will send for me. There is nothing I can do for the hostages we still have in Lothlorien, or any other Elven realm, as well.  
  
What I have done has sealed their fate, and also brought the doom down on my father's halls.  
  
My deed means war.  
  
But this time, given I succeed, we will have a weapon fitting to receive them.  
  
For a moment, my thoughts turn to my father. It is a barbed gift I bring to him, and it may seal his doom as well.  
  
But it means hope for our people, and I cannot turn back, now.  
  
For better or for worse, the deed is done. Now my only goal this side of Mandos is to reach my father's halls.  
  
Three weeks, five hundred leagues to go.  
  
I start to run.  
  
  
______________ o ______________  
  
  
\-- TBC --


	3. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

_a **very dark** AU and Mael-Gûl spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
**Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_   
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
_// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ "speech";   
_'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
  
_I've lost my battle  
Before it starts   
My first breath wasn't done  
My spirit's sunken deep   
Into the ground  
Why am I alone?  
I can hear my heartbeat  
Silence all around...  
  
Blind Guardian, Mordred's Song_  
  
  
**Part II**  
  
  
I see the Crebain from afar, long before they have any chance to notice me.   
  
If they are spies or not, I do not know; but they fly fast and purposefully, not as if they were simply on the search for food. I dive for cover just in time. They pass me fast, without delay. A single Elf, alone, is easily hidden from their prying eyes. Under their cries and wings the land is silent. There is an eerie watchfulness surrounding me, as if the very land is holding breath, and I can spy no other creature beside me and them alive for miles. I deem it better to be careful.  
  
If they are scouts, then my deed will soon be known to whoever sent them out. I have little hope that they will not discover what I have done; they are carrion birds after all. They will detect the meal that I laid for them only too soon. The thought of those birds feasting on my comrades makes my stomach churn again and fills my heart with grief; I can hardly bear the thought of Estel's face, of the body of the Hobbits, ending up under their sharp beaks. But there is nothing I can do about that now, and so I steel myself.   
  
The deed is done and I cannot afford to linger on regret.   
  
Undoubtedly, on my journey, regret will find me later. But not now.  
  
I wait until the Crebain are gone before I start to run again, and when I do, I move on even faster.  
  
Two more times I have to dive for cover on this day; there is little doubt now that the birds are spies, and I do not know if I have managed to elude them. But if I did or not, I have no choice. I do not stop for rest or even to eat; what food I take I eat while running. Only once do I wet my throat with water. The skins I carry will have to last a while.   
  
The afternoon finds me already high up in the mountain. I will not stop even for the night, at least as long as there is light enough to find my way.  
  
When I have reached the pass, it starts to snow. It is already close to nightfall, and what seems to be a mere streak of bad weather at first soon grows into a storm. There is a fell voice in the air; I do not know if it is the power of the enemy, or one of the wizards, or maybe even just the malice of the mountain. Caradhras has had an evil name even at the best of times.   
  
Of course, if the storm was caused by my enemies, they erred if they thought that it would hinder me; in fact the snow serves to smoothen my way. I can run lightly on its surface, and it will hold me as long as it is dense enough. On the white path, I proceed even faster. My greatest concern now is not to lose my way. I have traveled the pass two or three times with Estel, but that had been in summer. We always needed some three days to cross the pass; but while we did not tarry, we did not hasten either, and certainly we did not travel on at night. If I could travel on, I might make the journey in half that time. Now, though, with the clouds, I will soon be forced to seek some shelter, since I doubt the moon or stars will be visible to give me light.  
  
Still, I proceed as long as I can go on without having to feel my way. So fierce is my will bent on moving on, that it takes me some time to hear there are more voices on the wind than I first noticed.  
  
My head comes up. There is more than just one kind of howling on the storm. _**Wargs!**_ They have come over the pass, and their voices carry in the wind. If they are behind me or ahead of me, I have no way of knowing; nor do I know if they have caught my scent or are yet out for other prey. It does not matter. I can do nothing to evade them; I can just move on and hope that when I finally will meet them, I will be at a place where I can easily defend myself.  
  
But for the next hour or so, I do not meet the pack, and now it quickly grows too dark even for me to move on. Finally, I find shelter in a crack within the mountain. It is hardly more than a hole, and it leaves very little room for me to move, albeit enough to use my knives or bend my bow should I need to defend my skin; but it provides me with shelter from the storm, although I can do nothing about the cold. All I have to keep me warm is just one blanket and a sip of Miruvor. I do not know if it will be enough to last the night; but then, I have no choice.  
  
The Ring lies cold against my skin. It is heavy on the chain that holds it, and I can feel it reach out for my thoughts. It tries to lure me into putting it on. _**'You will not feel the cold,'**_ it tells me, and _**'I would enhance your strength. And you could travel on. I can grant you sight beyond what your eyes can provide you!'**_  
  
Yet I ignore it. It costs some strength to do so, especially since I am eager on moving on; but I do not fully believe the sweet promises, and I recall only too well what Estel told me about Frodo's mishap at Weathertop. Drawing the hunting packs to me, or other creatures of the enemy, is hardly anything I can afford; nor would it help me to bring myself to the Dark One's notice. It takes some discipline, but finally I succeed in shutting out the lying voice and in closing my mind to it; at least for now. I am quite sure that I will have to fight that battle again, later.  
  
I do not dare to sleep, though, nor do I think that my dreams would be restful. So I just take what food I can and wait. I stare out of the crack into the storm and watch the flying snow.  
  
Despite my will to stay awake, my thoughts begin to wander.  
  
_Estel..._ I cannot clear my head of the images of that last night I shared with Estel; of his rare and welcome tenderness, and even more of that rarest of all his offers, for _me_ to take _him_ instead of him playing his usual, cruel games. The memory is vivid in my thoughts, and while I would normally treasure it, now it merely fills me with grief.   
  
_Why did he have to choose that special night of all the times to offer this?_   
  
\-- I cut that thought; I might fall prey to thoughts like these later, but I can hardly afford them now. I tell myself it did not matter. There was no way for me to postpone what I had to do; and it would have not grieved me less had I done it sooner. I knew what I would need to do when I left Rivendell.  
  
Briefly, my thoughts wander off to Glorfindel. I have betrayed him, too; he never has been anything but good to me. He was so sure I told the truth when he made me swear that I would protect the Ring Bearer with my life and would not betray the free people. Poor honorable Lord! He could never have imagined that to be a slave will teach you how to lie convincingly. And I have greater duties to another people; my kin, who should have been free, too, but were denied that freedom for too long. And yet, it grieves me deeply that I had to betray his trust.  
  
I shove this train of thoughts away from me, as well, and steel myself. There are hardly any memories that will provide me with comfort tonight(1).  
  
And yet, despite my will, my thoughts turn back to other nights when Estel and I found ourselves out in the wilds and had to make do with little shelter or no fire to ward away the cold. I could use Estel beside me right now. He always accused me of using him as a furnace, since naturally my skin is much cooler than his own; it was a joke, of course, because he knew quite well that I could not help it, and that my kind is hardier to the cold than his. He counted on that very fact often enough. And yet, right now his presence, close to me, would provide me with warmth... as would the Hobbits.  
  
I banish this thought as well and force myself awake again. How much time has passed I do not know. But it seems to be more than just a mere few minutes, because curiously enough, outside the storm has died down. There is a wall of snow blocking the entrance of my little cave; for a moment, I nearly panic, but then I force myself to stay calm. I can still see some speck of sky above the snow; and oddly enough, it seems less dark again. I must have drifted off into dreams for longer than I thought.  
  
I get up again and dig through the snow to leave my shelter. It takes me just a little time to scramble out; the wall was not thick. Outside, I am greeted by a world turned white. The storm is gone, and the mountains lie quiet. More, even the snow has ceased to fall. The shroud of clouds finally has broken, at least enough to allow the light of the moon to penetrate. There is light again enough for me to find my way; reflected by the snow as it is now, I can see nearly as well as if by day.   
  
Of the Wargs I can find no trace. If I am lucky, they have passed me unaware.  
  
Nevertheless, I bend my bow and string it, just in case; if I will need to fight, I need it ready. Then I move on. I am almost ready to thank both the Powers and my luck – then quite suddenly, there is a chorus of howls all around me. Apparently, the Wargs were not as far away as I thought. And now they have also caught my scent and are on my track.   
  
The hunt is on!  
  
And soon I realize that they have laid a trap.  
  
There is a wide field of white snow where I run, about twenty yards between the wall of the mountain and the gap that leads to a steep fall. There is an even wider open field behind me, and just a small tongue of exposed, naked rock ahead of me. There are two Wargs waiting for me on that rock; and a great number of the pack is on my heels. I cannot fight them at this place, this wide, smooth field where they can attack from all sides.   
  
There is only one way to go, and that is forward.  
  
I kill the two waiting for me on the rock with two quick, well-placed arrows, then I run toward them. I am running for my life; the pack is hard now on my heels, and they are closing in. Only if I can reach the rock up ahead, I will have a chance, provided there are not more of them hiding round the bend --  
  
but apparently, there are none, and I finally reach my goal without being attacked. I whip around. Ten Wargs are running towards me, and there are more yet hanging back.  
  
I do not hesitate.  
  
My arrows fell them like a rain of death. Many I kill, but I cannot stop them all. Finally, three of them get close, too close for shooting range.  
  
My knives are out, ready to meet them.   
  
I do not know if the small ledge of rock I stand on will provide me with secure footing, or if I will withstand the impact when they reach me; I only know that I will not go down without a fight. If these beasts are to be my death, I will at least take the one who kills me with me down the mountainside.  
  
The first of them is close. I see the huge beast crouching down, then jump at me again. There are two more behind it. Everything seems to happen very slow. I stand ready to meet the attacking beast; and for a moment, forgetting that I can no longer hope for grace of the Valar, I send a quick prayer to Elbereth to protect me. Then the beast is there. I see it jump at me --  
  
\-- it never reaches me. For in that very moment, the snow under the three beasts crumbles away. And with a roar that is deafening my ears, the whole path that I went slides down, taking rocks and animals alike with it. The air is full of snow; the rock I stand on trembles. I am on hands and knees, and then I hug the ground. For a long time, I fear the snow will reach me and sweep me down from my small sanctuary, too; and I am sure that I will never be able to hear again.  
  
But the rock holds, and finally, after what seems an eternity, I find myself hugging the ground, breathless but still alive, covered in snow yet still capable of drawing breath, and the stone beneath me is calm again. The roar is gone; the snow is settled. I do not hear anything, and I do not dare to move. Due to a wonder I did not lose my weapons; instead, they are buried under my body, still in my grasp. The silence around me is overwhelming. Still, it takes quite some time before I dare to move. Carefully, I scramble up into a crouch, grabbing my weapons; after long moments when I hear nothing but my racing heartbeat and see no other movement around me, I finally dare to stand.  
  
I stand frozen, stunned by what I see. The Wargs are gone. So is the path I took. Where shortly before I crossed a field of snow, now there remains just a gaping fall, leading down into depths I cannot fathom. The ledge of rock I recall from earlier times when Estel and I traveled this pass is gone also. Only the sheer wall of the mountainside remains, with some protruding rock where once the path had been. If any of the animals who hunted me survived the avalanche, they will have to find another way to get back on my tracks. And whoever wishes to use this pass in the future will also have to find another way. I turn and look around, trying to figure out if my way is cut off, but it still lies before me.   
  
I send another prayer to the queen of stars. It seems that Elbereth has grace to grant yet even for those who are forsaken.   
  
After a moment's rest, and another sip of the cordial I took from Mithrandir, I start to run again.  
  
  
_________________ o ________________  
  
  
I meet the Orcs close to the Dimrill Stair that leads down from the pass. I do not know if they waited for me, or are out looking for the Wargs; or maybe they are out to hunt for other prey and this our meeting comes to pass by ill chance alone.   
  
I any case, while they are many and some of them have bows, they are as hampered by the deep snow as I am aided by it.   
  
I dodge their arrows easily on the white surface. They are not so lucky. I have lost half of my arrows in the battle with the Wargs. I do not have many arrows left, but they are enough to take them out. They fall to my shots, one by one. Those with the bows die first. The ones I cannot shoot I take out with my knives, and while I can dance out of range of their blows, they try in vain to avoid mine. In my heart I thank Elbereth again for the snow; had this battle taken place on the plain ground, the odds would have been harsh against me. Finally, the few survivors flee my deadly blows, retreating back into the cave they came from. No doubt they will be back in greater numbers; but when they come I plan to be long gone from here.  
  
I take the time, though, to retrieve my arrows and also gain what I can use from those they used against me. The shafts fit but ill to my bow, and using them will be awkward, but I cannot help that now; they will fly, and I am sure that I can compensate. And on my journey I will hardly have time to stop and make more arrows.  
  
I shoot a few to make sure I can hit my target with them; it takes me just a few shots to find out how to compensate their shorter length and greater weight. They will not fly as well as mine, but they will do. I cannot afford to be squeamish.  
  
And in the end, they may help me to solve another problem.  
  
When I am done, I hasten to start on my descent. It is near morning, and I cannot afford to be caught on the stairs; nor can I risk another battle. I have quite a way to go before I am down, and these Orcs are the least of my troubles. The snow will soon be gone. And I have yet to get pass the Dimrill Dale, and skirt Lothlorien.  
  
So far, I have been lucky. Now, I will see how long that luck will last.  
  
I hurry on.  
  
  
_________________ o _____________  
  
  
  
  
  
\-- TBC --  
  
  
Notes:  
  
(1) The thoughts that to survive as a slave, one has to bend or twist, and so Legolas learned to lie and to deceive, as well as Legolas seeking comfort in his thoughts, belong to Randy and were first provided in his great story "The Night That Covers Me", which is the story that inspired this dark AU. Both elements are used here with permission, and in the sense of honoring the source. Randy also provided the thought of Legolas' greater duty lying with his own people.


	4. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

_a **very dark** AU and Mael-Gûl spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
**Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_   
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
_// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ "speech"; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
  
_See hate will rise,  
So don't come closer,   
Fear your child,  
Born with a kings heart,  
But hate fooled me   
And changed my cards.   
No one asked if I want it,  
If I liked it...  
  
Blind Guardian, Mordred's Song._  
  
  
  
**Part III**  
  
  
I reach the bottom of the stairs in the late afternoon. The sun is low over the horizon already, and the dale is clad in shadow. Yet it is day; for two more hours I will not have to fear Orcs on my trail.   
  
However, this side of the mountains, there are other dangers.  
  
The vale around the waterfall is clad in mist, as always when I have been here. This suits my purposes; I do not wish to be seen or to run in a patrol from Lothlorien, and the later they discover me, the better. If I am lucky I can skirt them completely; but I do not dare to trust that I will have such luck.  
  
I follow the course of the valley down to the old Dwarven road that leads from the doors of Moria down to Lothlorien; I proceed with haste, but also with due care. Finally I reach the well of the Silverlode and refresh my water skins. The water is icy cold, but it will keep a while, and it is clear. I have drunk my fill earlier this day; one of the skins was nearly empty.  
  
Shortly afterwards, though, I leave the road and stay close to the eastern edges of the mountain. Estel and I always followed the Silverlode southwards into Lothlorien; but my path leads me northwest of the wood along the mountain range, and if I can, I will avoid setting a foot on the land of the Lady of the Wood entirely. I fear that she has ways of knowing who treads on her ground that stealth alone cannot defy.  
  
I skirt the shores of the Mirrormere and keep as close to the mountainside as possible, while still taking cover. It troubles me that I cannot proceed with greater speed, but now my hope lies in my stealth. If I am discovered by scouts, I will have to slay them if I can; but better not to reveal my presence to them at all. If I am taken prisoner, or killed, then all has been for nothing.  
  
I meet them at the northern edge of the valley, where the edges of the wood come closest to the mountainside. They are Galadhrim warriors, scouts from Lothlorien, and I am lucky that I see them first before they notice me. There are three that I can see at once; if I recall what I learned from their tactics on my former visits to their woods, they may have two or three more Elves with them.   
  
Unfortunately, they have posted themselves in such a way that I can hardly pass them without their notice.   
  
I wonder what they do here, so far north. Probably, they are investigating the tracks of the Warg pack that recently passed through to the high pass; they cannot know that those Wargs lie buried under an avalanche of snow and will not bother anyone anymore in the future.  
  
At least I hope they are here for the Wargs. If the Lady has been alerted to my deed by now, the valley would be swarming with her scouts. But then, maybe these are the only ones I've met so far.  
  
I banish these bleak thoughts and try to find my way around them.  
  
Meanwhile, the sun has vanished down behind the mountain range, and dusk arrives. Night is falling fast now. Soon, I will have Orcs following my trail.  
  
I try my best to sneak around the Galadhrim, keeping myself well covered. My bow is bent, an arrow to the string, just in case. It is one of the Orcish ones; if I have to kill, better to let those who find the bodies think it were their old enemies who did the deed. It is poor subterfuge at best, but it may buy me a few days at need.  
  
When I finally meet their lookout, I see him a scant few seconds before he notices me.  
  
He is close, only some ten feet. I see his eyes widen when he becomes aware of me. I cannot let him warn the others. My arrow leaves my bow as fast as thought; a second one follows within a heartbeat. Both find their mark. He falls without a sound, the first arrow piercing his throat, the second one his heart.  
  
I curse under my breath. Of course, I managed to kill him silently. But now I have to kill the others, too, or I will have them on my trail; and if they find out who they hunt, half of Lothlorien will be hounding me down.  
  
I cannot afford that. They must die. All of them.  
  
Suddenly, the voice is in my mind again.  
  
_**'You could use the Ring,'**_ it tells me, _**'put it on, render yourself invisible, as did Bilbo. You could pass them unseen. Or better, kill them, one by one, undetectable to their eyes. Why risk discovery and death? You have a mission to fulfill. Kill them without any of them being the wiser!'**_  
  
I shudder under the icy voice, the sweet temptation. The mere thought of killing like this disgusts me. And yet, that is what I have done, must do – as I have already killed my comrades.  
  
_**'Think!'**_ the lying voice adds in my head, _**'you could continue wearing it! You need not fear more pursuit by the Orcs – they could not find you! You could make your journey, unseen, undisturbed...'**_  
  
As if on its own will, my hand is on my chest, already fumbling with the chain, searching for the Ring... I stop the movement and shake myself.  
  
Listening to that trinket will not help me. For once, I do not know if the Ring would even work for Elves the way it did for humans. And more, even if it did, chances are that putting it on will alert the Lady to my presence. She is strong, and I am far too close here to her wood. Using a power of that strength so close to her domain can hardly go unnoticed.  
  
And I am close to Dol Guldur. The Ring will not protect me from the Nazgûl. How helpful would it be for me if I was safe from discovery by the Orcs, but hunted by the Ringwraiths?  
  
No. I get my hand under control and carefully start to move on again.  
  
The Ring is cold and hard against my chest, and it is heavy. I can nearly feel its displeasure. Yet I ignore it. Instead I set another arrow to my string.  
  
I find another of the Galadhrim before he has a chance to notice me. He is another lookout; I cannot see his comrades, and do not know if he is in their line of sight, but I have no choice but to shoot him quickly. My arrow meet its mark. He falls without a sound.   
  
These two were warriors I did not see when I first came upon the scouting troup. So there are at least three more of them around; how many other warriors beside those three are there, I do not know.   
  
The third one I meet by mere chance; I nearly stumble over him, and when I see him I am already too close to shoot. Luckily, he has not yet noticed me. My knives are out and I am upon him before he ever becomes aware of me; I cut his throat and he falls soundlessly, except for a small gurgle.   
  
This one was one of the three Elves I saw when I first found the patrol. So there are at least two more whom I have to kill; if I am lucky, these are all of them.   
  
When I finally find the other two, they are out in the open, and in close sight of each other.   
  
They are good, and they are both Marchwardens of Lothlorien, but I have been a warden of my country too, for centuries, before I ever was enslaved, and I have lived together with a ranger in the wilds for over forty years. I manage to get close enough to take them out; but there is no way to kill one of them without alerting the other.   
  
I kill the first one with a well-placed shot; he falls with a cry, and I have already let the arrow fly that is meant for his comrade. I see the last one turn and cry out. He is fast; his arrow is already on its way, and I am able to dodge it, barely. I feel a glancing blow to my bow, but it does not seem directly hit; I have been lucky. My arrow finds its mark, though it does not wound him; it merely pierces his bow, rendering it useless. He drops it with a curse and hits the ground, seeking cover. I hear him whistle for his comrades. I have another arrow on my string already; but suddenly, the string snaps and I feel a sharp pain in my face. I am lucky that it did not take my eye.  
  
A standoff, then. Of course, if there are more of them around, then I am finished.  
  
My knives are out and I am on my way to kill my enemy. He is up and awaiting me, his own knives out and ready to meet mine. We engage, and only now do I see his face clearly.  
  
_**I know that Elf.**_  
  
I recall little of the first few weeks after I was enslaved. I know there were many Elves, warriors both from Rivendell and from Lothlorien, who used me then, on invitation of Elrond, but thankfully, I do not recall many of their faces or their names. Only the numerous times when I was forced to serve Elrond himself do I recall clearly, and the times when Glorfindel gave me his support. It is Glorfindel to whom I owe it that my sanity survived those weeks.   
  
No, I do not recall the faces and the names of my abusers. _But I know Haldir._  
  
For Haldir had the arrogance to brag about that time. When Estel first took me to Lothlorien, that son of an Orc bragged that he had already tasted me twice before and wished to renew this acquaintance. Estel stopped his boasting then with a hard blow. But I remembered.  
  
It will be a pleasant thing to kill that bastard.  
  
Then we both are engaged in a deadly dance. For several moments I expect to feel an arrow pierce my back, and die at the hand of another one of Haldir's comrades; but it seems I am lucky, for we fight alone. I see his eyes widen in sudden pain when he realizes that despite his whistle of alert, no support comes; then his face hardens and his fighting gains in fury. And I understand.   
  
Two of the Elves I killed seemed vaguely familiar to me. I recall now that Haldir used to share his guarding duty with his brothers. So he has lost two close to him, already, by my hand.  
  
_Good. So now you, too, feel the pain of losing blood-kin, as my people have been forced to suffer for so long!_  
  
Yet I do not allow myself to gloat. He is good and his fighting skills are deadly; a fierce opponent, very hard to overcome. He is a worthy match for me. But his pain makes him reckless, and so I finally get through his guard. His eyes widen when one of my knives buries itself in his side; then I follow through with the other knife and pierce his heart.  
  
He falls, already dead.   
  
I do not mourn him. Yet I take the time to search his body, making sure that he is dead, and I do the same with the others. Then I set my spare string to my bow. If I have to use the weapon again, I need it ready.  
  
I do not try to hide what I have done; instead I leave the arrows to make it appear as if the small scouting party was attacked and slain by Orcs. I am not sure if that will serve to fool my enemies for very long, but every moment of confusion that I gain will bring me closer to my home without harsh pursuit.   
  
I would love to take their arrows, or their bows, but it would spoil my little subterfuge about the Orcs. So I leave their weapons alone. More welcome is the pack of _Lembas_ I find with each of them. I take only a few, one of each pack. That might be as much as they could have consumed themselves. The way-bread will last me the few weeks I have left, and it will sustain me well on my remaining journey.   
  
I wonder, though. Why did the party have _Lembas_ with them in the first place? The way-bread is given out only for longer journeys. Were they bound to go over the mountains to look out for our ill-fated company?  
  
Whatever their errand might have been, it failed. And I will never know.  
  
I do not linger longer than I must. There might be other Galadhrim around; and if the Orcs followed me down the mountain, those will be on my trail soon enough, too.  
  
I start to run again.  
  
  
_______________ o ______________  
  
  
I find the little settlement shortly after the rising of the moon, about three hours past nightfall. It is a small one, at the shores of the Anduin; this close to Dol Guldur, there are only a few Woodmen who dare to settle here. But that just fits my purpose. I approach them secretly, in stealth. I do not care to be detected, and I avoid their guards at best I can. The boat I find is small; nothing more than a little vessel to set out and tend their nets, or maybe fish traps. There are no oars; apparently whoever owns the boat has taken them with him to keep it safe. But I don't need them. For my purpose, the little vessel alone is enough. All I need is a way to get my weapons and the way-bread across the river dry and unspoiled. I cannot risk staying on this bank, or crossing Anduin days from now at the Old Ford, for as soon as my enemies find out what I have done, the ford could easily be blocked against me.  
  
I wait until a cloud covers the moon, then I place my clothes, weapons and my pack into the boat and pry it loose. I gasp when I step into the water; it is cold. But right now, it refreshes me. I steer the little boat onto the stream.  
  
It is hard work, and it takes all my strength. The water is swift, and the current strong, but I have learned to swim quite well, and this is nothing that I could not manage. It takes me but the quarter of an hour to reach the other side. When finally I reach the shore, I take the time to rest a while and regather my strength. Boromir's blanket gives me warmth, the way-bread direly needed fuel. It takes a while; I have not had any rest since the short time on the mountain in that cave.  
  
Yet finally, it is enough. I leave my effects on the shore and steer the little boat back on the stream; if I am lucky, they will think it got loose on its own. Then I go back to dry myself and don my weapons and my clothes.  
  
I take a moment to regain my bearings. Quickly I plan my way up north along the riverside and to my father's halls. I cannot afford to stay on the trading path for long; in case there is pursuit, I will be safer avoiding the road. But I am still far too close to Dol Guldur for my comfort, and thus, I deem it better to be quick than to be careful.  
  
For a few moments, I contemplate what will happen when – or rather _if_ \- I reach my goal.   
  
It is a cruel gift that I bring home. I have no doubt that my father can claim the Ring and bend it to his will, but once he succeeds in doing so, he cannot remain the one he was. The Ring may be the best hope for my people to win this war, but using it will cost him a terrible price. Once he claims it, it will destroy him, too.  
  
I know what he will choose, though. He raised me well. My needs, or his, are not important. For both of us, serving our people is the one goal remaining in our lives.  
  
And suddenly, the Ring is in my mind again.  
  
_**'Why subject your father to this fate?'**_ it asks, and adds, _**'And why condemn yourself? You are but miles from Dol Guldur. The Dark Lord is grateful to those who did him a great service. With the power of the One, he could easily break the spell. And you would be high in his favour. You could go home to your father's halls not as a dying thrall who ran off from his masters, but as a honored envoy, bringing the offer for a mighty alliance. What loyalty do your people owe Imladris? What loyalty do you owe Lorien? With Sauron as an ally, your people would be strong. You could cast down your enemies, and win this war, and you could live in peace in this your woods forever afterwards; and it would not need cost your life, or your father's very soul.'**_  
  
I stand, for moments rooted to the ground and frozen. The images are vivid and very compelling. I see myself, coming home, not dying but healthy, wearing the ring I took from Mithrandir. I see myself riding at my father's side, attacking Rivendell... And he riding besides me, strong-willed and well and as I have known him before.  
  
It is such an enticing image, and so strong – it seems nearly impossible to reject it. When I finally start to breath again, the air is nearly burning in my lungs. I want to scream, and yet I remain silent. It takes me all my strength to keep my wits.   
  
_What a sweet web of lies._ And it does not help that I am nearly willing to believe them.  
  
Of course, I know the images for lies. Allying himself with _Sauron_ is the _very last_ thing my father would ever do. We could have done that centuries before, had we only believed it would avail us. But for all our suffering, we have not yet sunken so far. The ever growing darkness encroaching our woods is a fitting reminder of what outcome such an alliance would bring. Besides, how _grateful_ Sauron is to his own servants is seen best in the fate of the Ringwraiths!  
  
And even _given_ he could really break the spell -- as soon as he had gained the One, why should he bother?  
  
Summoning all my strength, I finally banish the voice from my thoughts. It is harder to close my mind against it now; the closeness of the enemies' stronghold must adding to its strength. Or maybe it gains power every time I killed for its purpose.  
  
That thought makes me shudder.   
  
Shaking my mind free of the lying voice, I start to run again. For a few moments, I keep close attention to my route; yet I have found the trading path now, and after a time I keep on running and allow my thoughts to drift. The mindless movement is soothing, as is the thought that each step brings me closer to my home.  
  
Suddenly, a root catches my foot and makes me stumble. I am thrown out my mindless drift and catch myself; and then, I freeze again.   
  
_Because during the moments it takes me to get my bearings, I realize that the river is on my right side and behind me; and I am far closer to the eaves of the wood than I have been before._  
  
I have been running straight in the direction of Dol Guldur.  
  
Shaken, unsettled to my very core, I turn and make my way back to Anduin in haste until I know myself back on the trading path; and now, I hurry north, taking close care that at all times I have the river at my left side and the current is running against me.  
  
I steel myself. There will be no more chances for respite by allowing my thoughts to drift while I move on; nor can I afford to drift into dreams.   
  
Because if I do so, I might find myself standing before the very doors of Dol Guldur once I wake up.  
  
It matters not. My journey has just become even harder; but I can hardly afford time for resting, anyway. The way is long, and I have many leagues yet to cover.  
  
And undoubtedly, rest will find me once I have arrived.  
  
I keep on running.  
  
  
____________________ o __________________  
  
  
\-- End of Part III --  
  
  
  
\-- TBC --  
  
  
Author's note:  
  
Thanks go to Randy for the suggestion of the offer to break the spell the Ring gives Legolas when he has crossed the Anduin in this chapter. I think it very likely that the Ring would try that tune, at least once.


	5. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

_a **very dark** AU and Mael-Gûl spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
 **Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_  
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
 _// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ “speech”; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
 _  
Nothing else but laughter is around me,  
Forevermore,  
No one can heal me,  
Nothing can save me,  
No one can heal me,  
I've gone beyond the truth,  
It's just another lie...  
Wash away the blood on my hands,  
My father's blood,  
In agony we're unified.  
  
I never wanted to be  
What they told me to be  
Fulfill my fate, then I'll be free  
God knows how long  
I tried to change fate...  
  
Blind Guardian, Mordred's Song._  
  
  
  
 **Part IV**  
  
  
It is on the sixth day of my journey when the need sets in. I am exhausted; for a week, I have been running on with little rest, and now my body starts to tire. Besides, I have not found restful sleep for even longer, since that night some ten days ago when Estel extended the spell to that Dwarf and the Man of Gondor. It was Estel himself, Aragorn, my master, who did this to me. And yet, that does not change the need that runs through me. I miss Estel. I feel it in my body, in my very bones. To hear his voice, to see his face again, to feel his clever fingers on my body one more time...  
  
It does not help me that I tell myself that he is gone, that I will never see his face or feel his touch again this side of Mandos. That knowledge is bitter within my soul, and it just makes the longing worse.  
  
I keep on running. I cannot afford to linger on my grief, or my desire; I have an errand to fulfill and many more miles to cover... and yet.  
  
Just for a moment I allow my mind to wander, and suddenly it hits me, stronger than before. Estel's face appears before my eyes. Longing runs through me, for his touch, his voice, his body close to mine... the redolent smell of pipe-weed that always surrounded him like a cloak, his scratchy beard, even when it had just been neatly trimmed, his laughter... My body is aflame with desire. I crave him, his touch, his presence, and his absence is is like a sharp, stabbing pain. I see the half-smile on his face, the beckoning eyes, that impish question he asked me at our last night together: _'Do you not want me?'_ \- and I want to scream, to beg, to whimper. _Yes! Yes, I want you, yes_ – but he is not there. He is not beside me anymore, and he will never be again. And I, myself, made sure of that.  
  
I grit my teeth and tell myself that in truth, I should be glad, but the thought feels bloodless and stale within my heart. I am not glad; I crave his presence. I try to make myself recall all those times when he hurt me, when he tortured me; the worst of them that time in Rivendell, before we left, and other occasion, not as bad, but still quite painful.  
  
It does not work. All I can see before my eyes are times when we made love as lovers use to do, when he was gentle and considerate, when he took care to see to my pleasure as well as his own: that time in Gondor, when he nearly killed himself, taking that drug just so he could be with me without causing me pain; those times when he forsook his own completion just to make sure that I would enjoy to be with him; and then, that last night when we were together, when he gave himself to me. The images are vivid. They dance before my eyes, beckoning, taunting... I try to banish them.  
  
My eyes are burning. Unshed tears are welling up within me, choking my breath. _Estel! I am sorry, Estel! I did not see another way..._  
  
Breathing is hard, now, and my body burns. I long for him, long to be taken. I know that I will have to take rest, soon, try to ease my need as best I can. But I also know it will bring me little relief, and even less respite. For Estel is gone and he will never be with me again.  
  
With all my strength, I shove the images away, try banishing them from my mind, as little as this will avail me.  
  
At least, if I am lucky, it will buy me some more time.  
  
I keep on running.  
  
  
_______________ 0 _______________  
  
  
It is the twelfth day of my journey when the pain gets bad, and the visions start setting in. The need has been with me for the last six days; it is like a dull ache in the back of my mind, albeit ever growing. But now, spells of pain begin to trouble me, each step forward opens up another ache, and my stomach churns. My hearts starts racing, and cold sweat gathers on my brow; and I can feel my innards cramp against me.  
  
The pain comes in intervals, some short, some longer; but never leaving me completely. And I know it will grow worse.  
  
It should not be as bad yet! From past experience, I should have more time, at least a few more days before this stage. Either that last extension of the spell done by Estel has tightened the bond, or the exhaustion of my body hastens the workings of the poison that ravages me. But either way, I have less time left than I thought.  
  
I grit my teeth and hasten on.  
  
But not for long; for only after a few moments, I have to stop and fight against another spell.  
  
The pain is excruciating; it runs through me from head to toe, right through my chest, worse than any torture Estel ever put me through, and it steals my breath. And it is not any pain I could banish or ignore, for it is not of the body alone.  
  
The realization hits me as if I would just learn it now, as if it were a new one.  
  
Estel is dead.  
  
My master is dead, and I have killed him with my own two hands.  
  
The pain is acute in my mind. My body screams against me, and my fëa curls in grief.  
  
 _I am sorry, Estel! I did not wish to do it. I just did not have another choice. I did not see another way. I had to care about my people. Estel... Please Estel! I am sorry! Please, come back to me...  
  
I am sorry. Please, Estel, please... my need is great. Please! Come back and take me!_  
  
I cut this thought in shock at myself. He is dead; he cannot hear me. His fëa has long gone to Mandos' Halls; I sent him there, myself. He cannot be around to hear me, or to mock me now.  
  
And yet, I feel as if he would be close, as if I could nearly hear his voice, if I just concentrated. Images assault me, fill my mind, and I can banish them no longer. Estel, on that fateful day in Rivendell, when he stood there, defiant against his foster-father, gulping down the potion that would doom us both. To bind himself to me as much as I was bound to him. To ensure the equality of our bond.  
  
The times when he defended me. The numerous occasions when we fought beside each other, back to back, each one trusting the other as much as himself, as if we were one body, made of two. The times when he was playful, playing jests. The way he defended me against that Dwarf, swearing to me that he would rather kill the Stunted One than allow him to endanger my people. That last night when he gave himself to me, denying his own pleasure...  
  
The images are like a hot blade in my gut, and they make me coil around myself. _I am so sorry, Estel!_  
  
And yet, if I would have to make that choice again, I would still do it. It was not about you, Beloved. It was about my people...  
  
But he is gone, and there is nothing I can do to change that.  
  
Finally, I can breath again, and the cramps lessen, though they do not cease completely. I start to run again.  
  
But my mind is still in turmoil, and now I do not seem to be capable of calming it again.  
  
I see my comrades, the Hobbits, trusting, defending me against the Dwarf. I see them dying at my hands, the horror on their face, their shocked expression. New pain fills my mind, as fresh as a stabbing blow. I see Frodo's pierced throat, his empty, staring eyes. Brave, noble, gentle Frodo, slaughtered by a friend who betrayed his trust. I see the arrow glancing off his chest again, the second following fast as a thought. I see the chainmail shirt he wore.  
  
That Mithril shirt...  
  
There are other images that enter my mind. I know that shirt, because a long time ago it belonged to me. And the occasion when it was first worn was not one I am eager to recall.  
  
I was much younger, then.  
  
 _  
// / A young Elfling, innocent, scared, without any idea why my father sent me and my mother away, on a doomed secret journey through the woods... an attack, Orcs swarming around, everywhere... the warriors of our little escort trying to defend us, their prince and their queen, falling one by one. And in the commotion, mother grabbed me and forced me into the hole of a hollow tree, begging me to be silent, begging the tree to protect me. I never even got to say goodbye. I did not understand that I would never see her face alive again, never again feel her warmth. I did not know.  
  
It took three days until I dared to come out again, feeble and sick, and when I saw the corpses, I collapsed. The Orcs were gone, but I was all alone. My mother... I can hardly recall her face. I can hardly recall what I saw on that glade. I must have buried that memory very deeply, and I am sure that this was for the better. I was found by the warriors of my father soon afterwards and brought back home, and I cannot remember much more of that time, or of the weeks and months directly following. I only know that it took a long time until I had recovered enough to leave my rooms again... / //_  
  
  
I shake my head free of the memories.  
  
To this day, I do not know how my father survived that loss. It must have been the spell that held him and hindered him from joining my mother – that and the responsibility for our people. I was him who taught me that for us, the needs of our people have to come first. In everything.  
  
And yet. Now, I am about to destroy all hope he may have to join with her again, even in Mandos. For if he takes the Ring, he will be damned, as much as I am damned already. To save our people, and to win this war, he will have to doom himself in the eyes of the Valar as much as I have done. In bringing this cursed gift to him, I will destroy him, too.  
  
Pain stabs through me again at that thought, and the hot blade within my innards twists anew.  
  
And suddenly, the Ring is in my mind once more.  
  
 _ **'Then why do you not spare him? Claim the power for yourself! You could do it! You are strong, a scion of kings! You have survived worse trials with your mind intact that would have driven others insane. You could claim the power and bend it to your will! And with that power you can stay the poison, stay the workings of the spell. What power Elrond had to cast the spell cannot match the power you would gain through me. Claim me, spare your father, be the new master! You could take sweet revenge on Elrond, could make him feel all what he did to you... and you could still win the war and save your people. Why die in pain and in disgrace? Do it! Do it now!'**_  
  
The voice is sweet, cajoling, and it is intense. I can no longer close my mind to it. The whispers are a constant presence now within my head. And yet, I cannot afford to succumb to that song of allure, and know I must ignore it.  
  
I know from past experience how far my mind is influenced by the poison at this point, already. No matter that the poisoning should not be as advanced as it is, at this stage, I have been there before. I cannot trust myself. And even less I can trust in my strength to bend that trinket to my will. What if it lies? What if all I would achieve was alerting the Nazgûl to my whereabouts? Then, I would die, alone, still on the way, and the Ring would go to Sauron. And I can barely close my mind to the voice of the Jewelry anymore. How then am I supposed to bend it to my will?  
  
 _ **No.**_ I cannot risk it. I knew what was awaiting me; and I need all of my remaining strength to reach my father's halls in time to deliver the Ring of power to his hands.  
  
And I recall only too well the tale of Estel and the Hobbits of their mad journey to Rivendell, hunted by the Nine.  
  
 _Estel!_ Pain stabs through me again. His face is in my mind anew, and this time I can even hear his voice.  
  
He berates me.  
  
 _'Why did you not trust me, Little Leaf? I would have freed you! I would have tried to find a way, to break the spell, to free your people! Why did you have to destroy everything? Why did you not trust me?'_  
  
He has the audacity to ask!  
  
 _Oh, Estel! After all you ever did to me, after your broken promises – remember how you told me that you would protect me? That we would be equals? And yet, I cannot hate you.  
  
I loved you once, you know. I think I even loved you when I killed you. Despite of everything you did to me, I did still love you. It was not for revenge, you know. It was out of necessity! I do regret that it had finally come to this._  
  
The pain evoked by his voice is sharp within me. The grief is haunting, excruciating, and it nearly chokes me. And still, I do not allow me to give in to it; still I run.  
  
I shake my head. No use of arguing with a ghost; a ghost that is not even there. And yet, his ghost is not done with me. Again, my mind is filled with images.  
  
The familiar, slight grief on his face when he had to hurt me again. That look of concern and tenderness whenever he tried to accommodate my needs. The several times when he took me home, risking his head, and stubbornly endured the reprimands of Elrond afterwards, just so I could once more be with my family and see my people.  
  
His self-loathing when he learned that he could not function as a man any longer without inflicting pain. The numerous times when he proved, still proved, his commitment and his concern for me.  
  
I cannot even hide myself behind revenge and anger. I cannot hate him. I tried. But it is not hate I feel, it is loss. The feeling of regret, of grief, is overwhelming.  
  
And yet, I do not allow myself to lose my way, or to slow down. I run.  
  
Every step I take will bring me closer to my father's halls. Every step will take me closer to the Halls of Mandos.  
  
 _Soon, Estel. Soon. I have but to accomplish this one task, and bring the Ring to him who sired me. Then I can rest, and follow you. Then I might even see you again, for one, last time. Only a few more days.  
  
Then, we can talk._  
  
His face distorts within my mind. Derisive laughter and scathing remarks are resonating in my ears. The Ring's voice is back in my mind, and it scolds me.  
  
 _ **'Fool!'**_ it cries at me, _**'You killed him! You betrayed him! Do you truly think that he will wish to speak to you? Even should he be allowed to linger until you are there! You damned yourself! You will be damned for eternity!'**_  
  
I shake my head in disgust. Finally, I manage to tune out the Ring again. And with that, I can finally shut out the visions.  
  
I move on.  
  
  
__________________ o _____________  
  
  
I must have run for weeks now; I have no idea how much days have passed, how long I have moved on, for I have lost all awareness of time. I merely register if it's day or night, and if the sun stands high or low already in the sky. All I know is that I must move on, relentlessly, each step after the other. I have been beyond tired for a long time. I am exhausted. Each step is agony. Pain riddles my body without reprieve. My mind is drifting on and off, and always, always, there are voices.  
  
He talks to me.  
  
He talks to me in my head, asking me why I did it, berating me, my choice, my deeds, admonishing me what my deeds will bring upon my people.  
  
And he also reproaches me for my betrayal.  
  
Estel's voice is a constant presence in my mind. No matter that I know he can't be there; no matter that he should by rights be the last one to speak to me of betrayal, given what he told me when our love began. A part of me tells me that I should be angry, that he has betrayed me, too; but that part is weak, and the part that longs for him is stronger. He tells me that the pain I feel is nothing more than I deserve, that it is just a taste of what will come; he tells me that I should hurry on, that he is waiting. His voice is a constant presence, and while it torments me, it also comforts me, for if I would not hear him anymore, it would be worse.  
  
 _I am coming, Estel. Just a few more days, now. Patience. I am on my way._  
  
Another constant presence is the Ring, with its derisive scorn, its sweet temptation. I cannot shut it out again. Visions of slaughter, of the ones I slew, their horrified cries and pale faces. Images of the Hobbits, at the time they defended me, changing with the view of their pale faces when they knew they were betrayed; their blood is on my hands. There are other visions which I do not care to recall; of the time when I was first enslaved; or what I fear will happen once I arrive. And always, always, Estel, in the times we shared in the past, when he was a child in Rivendell, or later, when we were lovers; or when we stood as comrades, side by side. The images torment me, haunt me, and I cannot shake them. They are like a constant, bleeding wound, and they lose nothing of their brightness, of their sharp relief.  
  
 _Just a few more days... take another step, another..._  
  
I have no clear idea where I am. I just know that finally, the Emy Duir is in the south, behind me, and I've managed skirting Rhosgobel; I do not care to meet Radagast right now. Not with the things I carry. I also avoided coming close to any settlement. I've turned to the east now, entered the forest, and I move on as fast as I still can. A few nights ago I had to take shelter in a tree; the moon had vanished, and the sky was clouded. There was too little light to go on then even for me. The Tree-Song gave me back a little strength, but it brought no reprieve. Nothing will give me reprieve, now, anymore.  
  
 _Just a few more days,_ I tell myself. _Then I can rest for good._  
  
And still I run. Each step is painful, and every movement brings a new pain. Cramps run through my body constantly, cold sweat is on my brow; I am dying, and I know it only too well. I have been there before.  
  
And again Estel's voice is in my mind, his concerned face, contorted in betrayal. I can hardly stand the hurt in his voice. I do my best to justify myself, although a part of my mind still knows that he is not there. I have been in a constant dialog with him for days.  
  
 _Please, Estel, forgive me! It is just for a few more days, then I will join you. Maybe, if you have not yet passed on, we will be allowed to talk. Maybe I can explain to you why I had to make that choice, and beg forgiveness. And later, when you have passed on and left the circles of this world, I will mourn you for eternity. Only a few more days...  
  
I do not fear my death. I know that you could never let me die. It was always your greatest fear, that you would cause my death by that foul spell. You could never have let me go. And I had cause also not to wish for my death, although for other reasons.  
  
For had I died, Beloved, another of my family would have taken my place.  
  
It is for them that I have done this. I am sorry!_  
  
And yet, I run.  
  
I cannot afford to slow down. I cannot afford to take rest. I cannot afford... to go on, much longer.  
  
But I have to move on and finish those remaining miles, or my deeds will all have been for nothing.  
  
So I move on, although my body screams at me, and my heart aches, and my stomach churns and cramps run through me. I move on.  
  
Suddenly, there is a commotion; shapes are around me, out of nowhere they have come. My knives are out, but those who surround me do not attack. Instead they draw back, horrified. Concerned voices try to placate me.  
  
 _"Ernil Legolas! What happened? What are you doing here? Why are you alone?"_  
  
I need a moment to register that these are no enemies, nor are they just another vision. These are Elves. My people. The warriors of our realm have found me.  
  
I do not recognize any of them, though I know I should. But I am too exhausted. Their faces are nothing to me than a blur. It takes a few more moments until I can grate out my request.  
  
 _ **"Quick! There is no time to lose. I must get home. Bring me to my father!"**_  
  
I am not even sure if I spoke aloud; after all these days, my voice seems not to work. I try again.  
  
But apparently, they have understood, for they nod, and pale. One of them tries to argue, tells me that I need to rest.  
  
I have no time for this. I tell them that I must go there _**now**_. At any cost.  
  
And then I start to move again.  
  
Apparently, I am understood, because after a moment, they help me along. Good! They will escort me the last, few miles; and even should I die before I reach my home, they will deliver my body and the things I carry to my destination.  
  
And yet, I do not dare to rest; too much is still at stake. I will not risk failure on the last few miles. I will take rest only after I have finished my journey. So, I stubbornly move on, ignoring any pleas to wait, to slow down for the night, or even sleep. Finally they oblige me.  
  
We move on.  
  
  
____________ o ____________  
  
  
I have no clear recollection of the last days. Everything is a blur. I know we moved, and that from time to time someone forced water down my throat; I think we may have gone some way by boat, yet I cannot be sure(1). All I could feel was constant pain, and the knowledge that I could not rest, that I must go on. But now I am awake once more; for finally I recognize this road where we are now, the bridge before me. I have arrived; finally I am home.  
  
I shake their hands off me; the last few steps I will take for myself.  
  
He is there, standing at the gate. My father, summoned from his halls. They must have sent runners ahead to tell him the news, to inform him of my coming. I suppose that we have not been traveling very fast these last few days.  
  
It is hard to still go on, hard to even _see_ ; everything around me seems to be cast in sharp relief, in flaring brightness. And yet I see his face, concerned, shocked to see me, I suppose, or at least to see me in this this state. He does not understand; not yet. But I have no time to spare him.  
  
I am dying. I can feel it; my hold on consciousness is loose.  
  
And yet I drag my dying body on, take these last, few, remaining steps. There is one more thing I have to do, an errand that I need to complete before I can let go.  
  
I see him going pale. _I'm sorry. I am sorry, Father._  
  
Finally, I stand before him, feel his hands grabbing my shoulders, feel his desperate embrace. He says something, yet I cannot hear it.  
  
 _No time for this!_  
  
I shake him off as gently as I can and sink down on my knees before him. It is not my father, it is my king I have to address now.  
  
He understands, for I can see him straighten. My hands are on my neck. It takes a bit or fumbling; for some reasons, the chain refuses to come loose. Finally, I can get it off. I hold out my hand to him.  
  
For moments, the Ring is in my head again, a burning wheel of fire, searing. Its voice is screaming at me.  
  
 _ **'What are you doing? You cannot let me go! I belong to you!'**_  
  
For a moment, I nearly believe it. _It is mine, my own, my precious! It belongs to me! I killed to get it! I cannot simply let it go!_  
  
But then, for a last, precious moment, the grip of the ring around my mind weakens again. However briefly, sanity returns. It is over. I am barely alive. The Ring will not avail me.  
  
It cannot bring me back the one I need.  
  
 _I am coming, Estel._  
  
I let go of the Ring, place it safely in my father's hand.  
  
I see his face, see when realization hits him. See him recoil in horror, hear his voice, tonelessly, without breath:  
  
 _"What have you done?!"_  
  
It takes only a moment; then his face hardens, grows determined. His fist closes around the Ring.  
  
It is done. I have succeeded. I can rest now.  
  
Then, everything goes black.  
  
  
______________ o _____________  
  
  
  
\-- TBC --  
  
  
  
Author's note:  
  
1) The idea of Legolas and the Elves traveling by boat is borrowed from Jael_Beruthiel's great story "To the Waters And The Wild" and used here with permission. I thought it plausible that the Elves of Mirkwood would travel by boat on the woodland rivers, if they could, and it would also explain how they made the last few miles in a short time, here, despite Legolas' condition.


	6. Chapter V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

_a **very dark** AU and Mael-Gûl spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
 **Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_  
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
 _// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ “speech”; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
 __  
Pain inside is rising  
I am the fallen one  
A figure in an old game  
No jokers on my side  
I plunged into misery  
I'll turn off the light  
And murder the dawn.  
  
Blind Guardian, Mordred's Song.  
  
  
  
 **Part V**  
  
  
My child is dying.  
  
I sit at his bedside, holding his hand. I am not sure he even knows that I am there.  
  
He is raving in fever now, deep in delirium, his body ravaged and slowly killed by the poison that is eating at his insides. His skin is grey, his eyes dim. He no longer recognizes me, or anyone else who is near.  
  
My healers have tried their best to ease his pain with herbs and draughts, but nothing will stop the deterioration of his body. Nothing will ease the cramps that seize his dying form. And nothing they can do can stop the workings of the spell. The foul curse that kills him defies their skill.  
  
We never had a cure against it.  
  
He is writhing in pain beside me, long driven past his ability to endure. He is crying for Estel, asking, begging to be taken. That ranger who has been his master, who has stolen his heart and then abused his trust, is haunting his dreams even now. I know that he has killed him – I saw the Ring of Barahir, that cursed heirloom of the Dúnedain, on the chain around my son's neck. I know what he has done, for he told me, in that few precious moments when he was awake and still somewhat lucid, hours ago. I know he thought he had no other choice. And yet he still cries out for that Adan, and for the release his master can give.  
  
For a moment, I wonder. When my time comes, as it surely must happen, now, and the spell runs its course unfed towards the end, will I then, too, scream out for my abuser to come and renew that foul curse he once has laid on me? Will I, too, be as mad in need and rambling in my pain as to call out for that bastard Elrond?  
  
I shudder at the thought. It is revolting. If it should truly come to that, I hope one of my warriors or healers will show me mercy enough to end my misery before I reach that point.  
  
And yet I cannot do that to my son. All I can do is sit beside his bed and see him suffer.  
  
It is excruciating to watch.  
  
I cannot help him.  
  
Even if I took on the Ring, I am not sure that it will give me the power to stay that foul spell. And yet I need to try.  
  
But still I hesitate.  
  
My advisors have urged me to make use of it; all but two, one of them my oldest general, and the other my closest friend among them. They fear what the thing will do to me. But we are running out of time.  
  
Legolas' decision has left us no choice. There will be war. And only with the gift he brought we have a chance to win it.  
  
And yet, so far, I have been loath to put it on. I do not fear the fight of wills that surely awaits me.  
  
I have long left the planes of hope or fear, as far as my own person is concerned.  
  
But I know that once I should succeed to claim the Ring, and bend its power to my will, the Ring will also claim me. And then I might not wish to sit here anymore, and keep watch on him who has been my youngest son. I do not know if I will even continue to care.  
  
The foul lure of that thing and the palpable evil it emanates has been in my thoughts ever since Legolas placed it in my hand and I first touched it.  
  
I do not know what it will do to me.  
  
And yet I have no other choice. There is no choice. Wasting the sacrifice my son has made is not an option. He has broken his own oath and risked damnation, condemned himself to death, and with him all the other hostages – all to bring us the means to break the yoke and regain freedom.  
  
Our people's freedom, not his own; for himself, he knew there was no hope. He willingly chose his own damnation.  
  
How can I do less?  
  
A few hours ago, when he had that last moment of clarity, I offered to him to give him his release, if there should be no cure. Quick. Painless. Merciful.  
  
I knew that I would rather tear out my own heart, and yet it seemed the only thing that I could offer.  
  
My son denied me. He begged me not to darken my hands with the blood of my own child.  
  
"Do not give Elrond that last triumph, Adar," were his words to me, faint, choked in pain, but still clear as an unstained light, a testament to his unbroken strength.  
  
"I knew what waited for me when I took the Ring to bring it here – I am ready to face it. Do not let yourself be forced to murder..." - he ceased to speak then, and I knew he doubted that he had still the right to claim he was my son.  
  
I could do nothing than give him my blessing, assure him that he had not lost my love.  
  
Since then, he has lost all lucidity, and he has not woken up again.  
  
For a moment the images of that last exchange of words are vivid in my mind. The pain they evoke is overwhelming.  
  
Then I shake them off.  
  
I cannot wait much longer.  
  
I give the slack hand of my son a last, strong squeeze, stroke over the sweat-drenched features, the matted, golden hair, for one last time.  
  
Then I ease off my grip and rise.  
  
There is no further time to lose. My warriors are gathering. Soon our troops will be ready to depart.  
  
I must not waste the gift Legolas has brought.  
  
Besides, this might be the last hope for my son.  
  
I take the Ring and put it on my finger.  
  
  
_______________ o _______________  
  
  
The power that surrounds me all at once is staggering. A thousand voices seem to scream at me, but none louder than three – the shriek and howl of the Ring's master, attacking me, trying to overtake my mind; and, not unlike that first howl, but much, much sweeter, the echoing shriek of fear and hiss of disbelief of the two bearers of the lesser Rings: the Noldo bitch of the Golden Wood, and – Elrond.  
  
For one, treacherous moment I am tempted to bathe in his shock and fear, in his denial; but then I brace myself instead and open my mind to the power of the Ring.  
  
It is like mastering a storm. I feel them all gather their strength to strike, to assault me. But none of them is stronger than the Dark One, he whom I have battled for so long: Sauron, Gothaur, the Abhorrent, the Necromancer. I take him on headlong, will to will. For the moment I ignore the others.  
  
The battle is joined.  
  
I know I cannot win this and survive as I have been. I cannot overcome his power; I can only claim it, take it within myself, together with whatever malice may be bound to it. His evil sears me. The power is like a tempest, like a scorching flame; it threatens to burn me, to consume me, like a wall of fire. I feel it eating through my mind like molten lava.  
  
Yet I do not give in. There is no going back. My mind is like steel against his assault.  
  
Fury empowers me to prevail, fury gives me the strength to conquer him. I have lost two sons to Elrond's foul schemes, and a third lies dying, having sacrificed himself and all hope for his own salvation. I have seen the suffering and agony of too many of my people under the thralldom of this evil. I have lost over two hundred of my people to the foul slavery Elrond and Galadriel have wrought, under the influence of Sauron's malevolence; for it is clear to me now that it must have been the malignity of their Rings that wrought all this. Yet I do not forgive them. I do not forget.  
  
And I will not allow myself to be distracted. I concentrate on Sauron. I have lost my father and countless warriors in the war against this very foe.  
  
I will not allow myself to be conquered.  
  
I hear the scream of the Dark One, and my fury burns him. His hate is endless, and his power great, yet he is hollow, nothing but will, and malice, and a lust for power.  
  
But I have a heart yet, and a goal, and I prevail.  
  
His impotent scream as the power is sucked out of him and finds new home in me is dreadful, but it does not faze me. His power threatens to overwhelm me, and it takes much from me to take it in – but fury steels my will, and so I manage.  
  
I will not give in now.  
  
Finally it is over; he collapses, and I can feel him weaken, lose his grip on my mind and dissolve. I have done it! I have conquered his power, and the Ring, for good.  
  
But now I am assaulted by the minds of those who hold the lesser Rings. Galadriel, the pale queen of the Golden Wood, terrible in her icy power; and Elrond, the dark master of Imladris, he whom I hate and have desired to bring down for far too long. I hear their screams of fear and impotence, and their assault is hard to withstand, especially now, so soon after that other battle.  
  
But they have nothing to set against my power, now, and in the confrontation of our minds, my hate sears them, burn their defenses away. Their fear and shock are clouding their minds, and I can strike them down. They have nothing to prevail against my cold determination.  
  
The cruel, icy Noldor-queen finally escapes my grasp, collapsing for a moment under my assault; then she is gone, her white presence vanished from this otherworldly plane; perhaps she managed to shut me out, or maybe she just took off her Ring. I know not.  
  
I concentrate on Elrond. He writhes under the assault; I can feel his fear and hatred. For all his cruelty, the Peredhel was not expecting his former victims to fight back on him. I feel him cringe under the knowledge that his foster-son is dead, yet his pain does not move me. His shock and fear is sweet, yet I do not let it sway me to revel in triumph; as of yet, the beast is still unconquered. His threats leave me cold, his rage is impotent. My wrath sears him, burns his shields away; his strength falters under my determination. His thoughts are no longer a secret to me. He threatens to kill the hostages, but to no avail. I have known that they were dead from the very hour Legolas arrived. I have known for centuries that they would die when we finally rebelled. And they knew this, too; that one day they would have to pay the price for their people's freedom.  
  
As I am dead, have been dead, for all that counts, from the day the Peredhel put that foul curse on me.  
  
But before I leave for the final darkness that awaits me now, I have an errand to fulfill. I have to free my people. And I will succeed in that task, whatever be the price.  
  
Our struggle lasts but briefly, then Elrond's mind is gone. If he managed to shut me out for now, or if he managed to take off that Ring of his, I do not know.  
  
It does not matter. I have prevailed, and I have conquered the One and claimed its power. The power of the enemy is mine, and I am the new master of the Ring. Sauron is no more.  
  
All of the Dark One's secrets are at my disposal, all his plans before he lost his strength are known to me. I know the Nine are on their way to me, but they will fight me not; they are bound to the power to the One, and they will obey me. I will send them and the troops at their disposal against Lothlorien, and so make sure that the Golden Wood cannot help its long-time ally Elrond Peredhel when my army comes to call for him. I have no mind yet what to do about the other realms, about the wars of Gondor. I do not know yet what the former allies of Sauron, or his lieutenants and warlords, are about to do; if they decide to continue the wars of their former master on their own, or if they finally decide to pay homage to me. It feels natural that they should, for a part of my mind, but for the moment, what they do concerns me not.  
  
I have another war to fight, and that war has been long in coming.  
  
And there is one last thing I have to do.  
  
I cast a look at the one lying prostrate and unconscious on the bed in this small chamber. My son.  
  
There must be a way to stay the workings of the spell, to save his life. There has to be a way to give him strength, to overcome the poison.  
  
A part of me tells me I need not care. That this one is of no purpose any longer; he has fulfilled his usefulness, and all that remains now is not to waste the power of the gift he brought, but use it wisely.  
  
The inner voice insists that I cannot afford to waste my strength on feelings, or on the weakness of compassion, on caring for those who fall victim by the wayside, or to distract myself with useless mourning. That I should cast aside such weakness and shed all emotion, save that which alone can heighten my strength and power: hatred and the cold determination to avenge. That I should concentrate from now only on the power I need to gain to reach my goals...  
  
The prospect is tempting. Cold, unfeeling power, no more pain, no agonizing helplessness, no crippling heed for the suffering of others...  
  
For moments, I feel myself contemplating the idea, and I recoil in horror at the thought. _**No!**_ I shall not follow that path. That way lies corruption, and madness.  
  
Ignoring the treacherous voice that tells me not to care, I reach into the power of the Ring, then for my son's distorted mind. I try to grasp the working of the spell, try to send some of my power into him. It is no use. The blue light of the spell refuses me. The One Ring has the power to bend others to my will, to force them to obey me; yet it has not the power to give strength, or heal. I cannot even transfer some of its raw power into the one who needs it most.  
  
Rage. Rage and pain engulf me. I reach out again, for the treacherous mind of Elrond – but I can find him not. He must have taken off his Ring, or maybe I am too exhausted yet and have not yet mastered the One as completely as I thought. But he eludes my grip. I regret now that I could not hold him long enough to wrestle the answers I need about the workings of that curse from his treacherous mind. But I recall his hateful spite, his claim that nothing, _nothing_ could break the spell, that I have condemned myself to death, as well as my last remaining son.  
  
My last remaining son. The other two are dead then.  
  
The realization hits me like a cold, freezing blade. Somehow, I have already known. But still, a part of me is in denial.  
  
Then, rage runs out and is replaced by cold determination.  
  
I may not have the power to save my son. But I have still a duty to my people. I will not waste the sacrifice that Legolas has made.  
  
And now, I also have nothing more to lose.  
  
Elrond will pay for this. My sons will be avenged.  
  
There is one final thing that I must attempt. I step close to the bed again and take the chain off from my last son's neck. The wizard's ring, the one he took from Mithrandir, responded to my power; the power of the One Ring I wear now. It has a red stone: from what I learned of the tales of the Three, it must be Narya, the Ring of Fire. I take it and place it carefully on Legolas' hand.  
  
I do not know if it has any strength to stay the poison, or if it even can give him some strength to stay alive a little longer. But it is the only thing I can do, and I have to try.  
  
Legolas stirs and moans, and fumbles for the chain. He does not wake; he does not recognize me. He just whimpers a little and seems to search for something. Again, he murmurs something of Estel.  
  
I press the Ring of Barahir into his searching hand and he calms down again.  
  
I straighten up again and turn. There is nothing more I can do for him. But I must think now of our people.  
  
And I am running out of time.  
  
It does not matter. Legolas knew what fate awaited him. Yet he did not shrink from fulfilling his duty. He made his choice and so sealed his own fate.  
  
As I have now sealed mine.  
  
Casting a last look at my dying child, I turn to the door.  
  
My generals are awaiting my command. My troops are ready.  
  
This time, we fight.  
  
  
______________ o ______________  
  
  
  
\-- TBC --  
  
  
  
Author's note:  
  
My thanks go to Randy, who suggested both Thranduil's brief wondering about his own awaiting fate, as well as an expansion of the temptation theme regarding the shedding of all feelings of caring and compassion in this chapter. Thank you! Your great edition work on this story has greatly improved its intensity!  
  
 **About the effects of Thranduil claiming the Ring** :  
  
The question what would happen if one of the Wise and powerful indeed took the Ring and became its new master was never brought up in the final work of LOTR. There is a draft though in the eight tome of HoME, "The War of the Ring" ( London 1990, HarperCollinsPublishers Paperback edition, 2002, P. 401), in an unused draft of the chapter "The Last Debate":  
(Quote)  
"‘But if we should find the Ring and wield it, how would it give us victory?’, asked Imrahil.  
‘It would not do so all in a day’, answered Gandalf. ‘But were it to come to the hand of some one of power or royalty, as say the Lord Aragorn, or the Steward of this City, or Elrond of Imladrist, or even to me, then he being the Ringlord would wax ever in power and the desire of power; and all minds he would cow or dominate so that they would blindly do his will. And he could not be slain. More: the deepest secrets of the mind and heart of Sauron would become plain to him, so that the Dark Lord could do nothing unforeseen. The Ringlord would suck the very power and thought from him, so that all would forsake his allegiance and follow the Ringlord, and they would serve him and worship him as a God. And so Sauron would be overthrown utterly and fade into oblivion; but behold, there would be Sauron still....but upon the other side, a tyrant brooking no freedom, shrinking from no deed of evil to hold his sway and to widen it.  
‘And worse’, said Aragorn. ‘For all that is left of the ancient power and wisdom of the West he would also have broken and corrupted’."  
(End Quote)  
So, while Tolkien supposed that Sauron would lose his power to the new master of the Ring and 'being sucked dry', he obviously envisioned that process gradually; on the other hand, he stated that the new Ring-Lord 'could not be slain', (conveniently forgetting that Sauron himself had been slain while wearing the Ring by Gil-galad and Elendil in the Last Alliance), so the new Ring-Lord, beside being able to read the thoughts of Sauron and of the holders of the bother Rings, must also have gained some kind of supernatural power.  
  
However, to meet my purposes, I have decided to follow this quote only in part here, and decided on a somewhat different effect of the claiming of the Ring by someone powerful enough to master it and become the new Ring-Lord: the 'sucking-dry' process is taken literally, here, and and happens _fast_ , so Sauron is indeed reduced to a powerless specter.  
  
But make no mistake: the one who takes over the former Dark Lord's power (and with it his malice) does so at a terrible price...


	7. Chapter VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

_a **very dark** AU and Mael-Gûl spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
**Warning :** Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, torture, non-con and debatable consent. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death**. I mean it!_  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied).  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_   
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
_// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ "speech"; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  


  


_And from the flames_  
As chance would have it,  
The Soulforged,  
Will come into light...  
And from the flames  
As chance would have it,  
The Soulforged,  
The stainless will rise...

_Blind Guardian: The Soulforged_

_Will you still wait for me,  
Will you still cry for me,  
Come and take my hand!  
  
Blind Guardian: The Maiden and the Minstrel Knight_  
  
  
  
**Part VI**  
  
  
I wake from a dream of flames.  
  
Blue, freezing light has haunted me within my dreams, kept me trapped in my burning body, writhing in pain; red fire ran through me, consuming my body from within, fighting the freezing light. And always, always voices, whispering, calling for my attention, telling me to fight, to withstand, and to claim; telling me to give in and to let go. A crescendo of different sounds and different voices, battling and raging in my mind, never calming, never ceasing; never leaving me alone.  
  
But now, finally, the fire and the blue light are gone, and there is silence.  
  
I rise, carefully, unsure what awaits me or surrounds me. I have no true recollection where I am or how long I have been here. For hours or days – I do not know – I have been haunted by visions, by fleeting images, nothing solid, and all I could perceive was a blur.   
  
But now, the visions are gone, and finally, blissfully, my perception works again.  
  
For the first time in what felt as far too long, again I can _see._  
  
I am alone. I am still in that chamber I recall from one of my feverish dreams; it is my former room in my father's halls, nearly unchanged, from the time of my last visit here, some months ago, although it looks somewhat neglected. I have not been here in awhile, and during these last days – or were it hours? - since my last arrival, I do not suppose that I had much use for anything but for the bed.  
  
My form feels light. There is no pain; finally, the cramps have left me, and I can move again.  
  
Yet there is something lying on the bed, and I turn back to see it.  
  
There is a crumbled, greyish form back on that bed; a body, curled in on himself, distorted by what must have been agonizing cramps. But now, the form lies still, and it is hollow. Empty.  
  
I understand. So this must be my _hroa_ then, and that I am here means that it cannot hold me, anymore. It is over.  
  
For a moment, I study the fallen form in odd fascination. The skin is grey, the eyes are empty and filmed over. Angry dark welts run from the torso up to the neck and face. The hair is matted. There is no breath, no remaining pulse or spark of life. The poison has finally overwhelmed that hull.  
  
So this is how I looked when agony set in, to those who cared about me? I pity my poor father, who was forced to see me in that way, and will now be forced to bury what remains of me.   
  
I can hear muffled noises - something like sobs - coming from beyond the door, but I feel oddly detached, as if they do concern me not. Did whoever has been sent to keep me company leave me to find relief just for a moment? Do they already know? Whoever it was sitting here, I pity them. Watching me struggle with death these last few hours - or days - before I met my end cannot have been easy.   
  
But I am free. The pain that has haunted me for so long is gone. So is the burning _need._ The freezing light. The flames.  
  
It is truly over. The curse cannot hold me anymore. For the first time in years, I am free, and the spell has no longer hold on me.  
  
I feel a presence beside me and turn. A mental voice, brushing my mind like a caress. _Legolas..._  
  
_Estel!_ He is here, or what remains of him; his spirit has not left. He is besides me!  
  
I am stunned, glad, shocked, overjoyed to see him, and at the same time frightened, all at once. How is this possible?   
  
He must have heard my thoughts, because I feel his answer in my mind. It is funny, this disembodied state, because I have no more eyes to see, or ears to hear, and no more limbs to touch; and yet I feel him, see him, and his voice is as a familiar caress to me.  
  
He answers me directly in my mind.  
  
_'I do not know. I do not know if I have been allowed to stay with you at least a little while, or if it was the curse that still has kept me here; but I was able to delay my departing and wait for you. All I knew was that I could not go on before you had fulfilled your goal, or met your end. I could not let you do this alone!'_  
  
I still can hardly grasp it.  
  
_'You were with me all the time?'_  
  
He gives me what would account as a nod, if we still had bodies.  
  
_'From the moment you started this mad quest. I could not leave you.'_  
  
For a moment, I am frozen, but then, renewed pain runs through me, gutting, fresh and sharp as a reopened wound.  
  
_**Estel! I am so sorry, Estel!**_  
  
_'But why?'_ I ask him, _'I – I killed you! I betrayed you! How-'_  
  
His answer is wry, although fraught with sadness, and regret.  
  
_'I know. I was there, remember? And at first I was furious! I admit that for a time, I hoped the Wargs or Orcs would get you, and we could meet sooner.'_  
  
He feels both troubled and irritated at the thought, but at the same time, his voice still is nearly a caress. How can he be not angry?  
  
His answer is full of regret.  
  
_'I had some time to think.'_  
  
He must have felt my lack of comprehension, because he adds:  
  
_'You did what you thought best for your people. And I have only to blame myself. After all I did to you, I probably should be grateful that you did not do it sooner. Besides, I hardly left you any other choice. I should have told you that I would do everything in my power to help you free your people. I should never have put you through that renewed spell. I should never have let it come so far. It was my fault.'_  
  
I stare at him, bereft of words. How can he still be blaming just himself?  
  
_'Estel!'_ I finally reply, _'You did not command me to cut your throat, nor did you force my hand. It was my decision! And I am ready to face up to whatever trial may await me for my deeds. But what I did was **my** choice!'_  
  
_'I know,'_ he replies, _'still I wished I had offered you another way. I would have done it, Legolas. I would have fought beside you, once I had fulfilled my destiny. I should have told you that. I failed you in that, as well...'_  
  
Exasperating man! Will he never cease to take responsibility for both of us, and for all I do as if I were not capable of my own decisions? And yet I feel deep sorrow at the choice I made, at the destroyed possibilities and chances. I have brought doom down on my father and robbed Estel of his destiny, all for the goal of freeing my people. I threw all of Ennor into a possible second darkness. To think there could have been another way defies my thinking. If I had just shown him a little more trust... I am glad that he is wiling to forgive me, although I hardly deserve it.  
  
And yet. His claim that he is to blame for my choice is nothing but presumptuous.  
  
_'I am not your slave anymore, Estel! I am under your command no longer. My deeds are my responsibility, not yours.'_  
  
He turns away, and for a moment I am bereft of warmth and light. New pain engulfs me. For moments I regret my words. So this will be my fate, for eternity – longing for him and bereft of his presence, all alone with both my anger and regret. It is a fate I brought upon me, myself, and yet it is a prospect that has me recoiling.  
  
Too late, though, to shrink away from that, now. It is time to pay up.   
  
I steel myself for his derision, his scorn. But he surprises me.   
  
_'I know,'_ he replies, turning back to me, and I am caressed again by his regret, _'I am sorry. Old habits die hard. And I have been a fool to see you as such for so long.'_  
  
His next thought is earnest, and from the very depth of his soul. _'Still, I am not without fault at this. Whatever awaits you, I will ask to be allowed to share your fate. Whatever sunders us, I will plead the powers themselves to breach the gap.'_   
  
I am completely stunned at his offer.  
  
_'Estel!'_ I gasp, then add: _'What awaits me is most likely eternal damnation. You do not deserve...'_  
  
He is determined. _'Still, I would ask to share your fate. I am as much to blame as you, in this. And I would rather be with you, than face eternity alone.'_ He pauses and stills for a moment, then he adds, hesitant and shy: _'That is, if you would have me.'_  
  
I cannot believe his words. _**He**_ would ask _**me**_ if I would still accept _**him?**_  
  
During my run, that mad quest, haunted by pain and visions, I have imagined again and again what I would say to him, how I would justify myself, and how I would confront him, should we be allowed to meet again: his broken promises – that I would be his slave only in name, that we would be equals. That he'd protect me. All the pain he made me suffer for his needs. The games he played to feed his lust. That last extension of the cursed spell he forced on me.  
  
And yet. The memory of former pain he put me through is fading now, after I am no longer bound within the fetters of my body. And there he stands before me, the stubborn, noble, stupid, exasperating, sad and determined fëa of the man I loved in life and still love now in death, and will love whatever be my fate, until the world is ended; and all the words I had rehearsed and would have said defy me.  
  
Would he really wish to share my fate? Would I wish him to share it? And yet, the prospect to spent eternity with him, not mourning and alone, fills me with longing. _Estel..._  
  
At a loss of another thought, I lamely reply: _'You are mortal. I am one of the Firstborn. I will be held in Mandos, if I am not cast out into the darkness for my deeds; your are fated to pass beyond the circles of the world. What makes you think that we will be allowed to stay together?'_  
  
He does not back down. _'If we must be sundered, then I will wait for you, until the breaking of the world. And then, I will ask again to be allowed to share your fate, whatever that might be. I love you, Legolas. I always loved you. Never doubt that.'_  
  
I feel overwhelmed at his confession, at the hope and warmth he gives me. Even if we should be sundered unto the breaking of the world, and maybe even beyond, I will carry these words with me, this knowledge: that he still loves me, that he has forgiven me – that he loves me as much as I still love him. It is a soothing balm on the wounds I feel, and it restores my strength.  
  
Still, there is one more question I have to ask. _'Estel – what of Arwen?'_  
  
He turns away again then, for a moment, and I feel the regret in his fëa as a sudden shadow, darkening his soul.   
  
_'I thought I loved her,'_ he finally replies, _'and maybe, with a part of me, I did. But it was just the shadow of a thought I loved in her. My heart was taken long before I ever met her.'_  
  
He turns back to me. _'Taken by you, Legolas. It is you whom I love. It has always been you.'_  
  
My heart goes out to him. For one, glorious moment, we are joined again, one, as we were back in those first days of our love, before the curse stood between us.  
  
_'As I love you!'_ I assure him, _'I always will, Estel.'_  
  
Then the moment is over. He withdraws from me, with some regret.   
  
_'Legolas, I cannot delay much longer. We must leave now.'_  
  
And I, too, become aware of the summoning, from the west, which pulls at me. At both of us.  
  
Still I hesitate.  
  
_'My father – what I have brought down on him...'_  
  
Estel's mind touches mine again. His thoughts hold both compassion and reassurance.  
  
_'His fate is no longer in your hands. You must trust him to make his own choices, and that they will be the right ones. You cannot help him if you stay here as a houseless fëa.'_  
  
My reply is bitter, full of pain. _'I did not leave him any choice!'_  
  
Estel's presence is like a soothing caress. _'Yes, you did. The choice to take and claim the Ring, which he did; and the choice to trade his love and heart for power, which he refused to do. There will be many choices before him, yet, and they are his to make. As you made yours. You must trust him, Legolas; you can no longer help him. Come along.'_  
  
Still, I hesitate, but just a moment. Then another vision strikes me, and it makes me tremble. My father has the One Ring, now, and Sauron's power. If I stay, as a houseless spirit, will I tempt him to offer me another body? It would be in his power, I assume, if together with Sauron's power he has indeed inherited all the arts and skills of the former Ring-Lord. Not for nothing did we call Sauron the Necromancer. And could I then resist that offer? Would I succumb, bringing even deeper damnation down on him?  
  
The mere thought makes me recoil in horror, and strengthens my determination. _**No!** I will not do this to him! _  
  
Whatever he will have to do, in the upcoming war, at least __**this** abomination shall not be among his deeds.  
  
I turn to Estel, and together we head west. It it time to face up to my judgment.  
  
But at least, for a last, precious time, the one I love is beside me, and we are joined again.  
  
  
______________ o ______________  
  
  
\-- TBC –


	8. Chapter VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely AU. Legolas slave fic. Very dark Spin-off of my Mael-Gl universe. Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist.

_a **very dark** AU and Mael-Gûl spin-off by Aislynn Crowdaugher_  
  
 **Warning** : Very grim AU. Legolas slave fic. Implied slash, m/m, BDSM, non-con and debatable consent. In this chapter, also rape and torture. Also, for this story: Gore, horror, and _**character death.**_ I mean it!  
  
Rated: Mature –strictly adults only.  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas (mainly), Boromir/Legolas (implied). Also in this chapter: Thranduil/Others.  
Beta: Randy. Thank you! All remaining errors are my own.  
  
For author's notes, disclaimer and for the background, see Prologue.  
  
Summary: Mirkwood is a subjected realm and must give hostages to the other Elven realms as slaves. Legolas is the slave of Aragorn, who is a sadist. _But what if Legolas indeed were to take the Ring?_  
  
Occasionally I work with flashback scenes. Here is a Guide:  
 _// /flashback/ //; ************Time change within a flashback***********;_ "speech"; _'thoughts'_  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
 _  
On through the heat  
I feel the touch of evil  
I still feel  
The icy claw in me.  
  
For a decent price  
I've banned kindness from my heart  
The spirit of all truth and beauty  
Pawned for my desire...  
  
Blind Guardian: The Soulforged _  
  
  
**Part VII**  
  
  
It is dawn when we reach the borders of the hidden valley. Even had I not known the way, I would have found it easily. The voice of Elrond's ring has been a steady presence in my mind, and it has drawn me like a beacon. Its master has been fighting me in my thoughts for weeks. I feel his hate and fear inside my mind like a vile song. It is nearly as insistent as the power of the One Ring in my mind, and almost as sweet.  
  
I know they are waiting for us. They have known that we were coming for a long time now. Still, while they are prepared, so are we. We crossed the mountains in a fortnight, and we made sure we are well rested. Our troops are ready to attack.  
  
And I have made my plan with care. I know what strengths they have, how many warriors they could muster. I know which strongholds they can occupy, and how they plan to meet our attack.  
  
Elrond's mind, while he wore his Ring, has been an open book for me, and although he fought me with all his strength, I did not allow myself to be deterred. Despite the horrors he showed me, the revenge he took on the hostages in his keeping, the horrid fate of my poor son while Legolas was in his grip – I did not allow myself to turn back. His fear has been a sweet voice in my mind; his anger, his impotent rage, his constant attempts to shake off my grip were all futile. I know him now, know all his secrets; I took his very knowledge off his mind. I know his preparations. He could not hide himself from me.  
  
And even if that were not the case, I know this valley very well. My son lived here for years. And every time that cursed Dúnadan took him to visit us, I learned more of the layout of its grounds, its strengths and weaknesses.  
  
This war has been coming for a long, long time.  
  
I cast a short glance to my right. This should be the place of my son. I dreamed, oh how I dreamed, I would have him beside me when we took our stand; but he is gone, and the place where he should be is empty.  
  
My eyes find the gaze of my general, and I nod. We move.  
  
We have barely made a hundred yards, though, when a shadow emerges from the forest and steps onto our road. It is a cloaked man, bearing a staff.  
  
I stop my horse, but nod towards my guards. Ten of my men file out and ready their bows. I move forward, taking care not to obscure their aim.  
  
He looks familiar. A wizard, but I know it is not Radagast. The brown wizard approached me when we left our woods. He asked me then to give up the Ring, begged me not to condemn myself to darkness; but when I refused to heed his words, he stepped off the road and let me go. He knew better than to fight me; he had been there, in our woods, when Elrond took our hostages, and my sons.  
  
This one seems different.  
  
The man raises his head and the mists around him seems to part. I recognize him, as I know the face and attitude. . Mithrandir. I know my son had slain this one when he took the Ring; but here he is, returned from death. Wizards are hard to kill, apparently.  
  
"Hail to you, King Thranduil! What are you doing here, bringing war upon your kin? I bid you, reconsider. Stop this madness. The Ring you took is evil. You have conquered he one who held its power; now you ought to end this evil. Heed my words and cease this war. Do not bring bloodshed on your kindred. If you pursue this, the Valar themselves will stand against you."  
  
His voice is deep, his words seem wise, and the spell they weave is quite compelling. Words have always been this one's special gift. He would convince me, too, if not for the determination in my heart.  
  
His words come centuries too late.  
  
I urge my horse forward a few steps. I am taking care not to obscure the aim of my bowmen, though.  
  
"Mithrandir. Back from the dead, I see. And what interesting counsel you bring forth."  
  
I straighten myself in the saddle and raise my hand. My archers draw their bows.  
  
"It comes strangely late, I deem, though. Where were you, when Elrond brought war and terror to my woods? Where was your counsel, when he took my sons? When he carried off our people, yen by yen? You dare to confront me now?"  
  
He straightens up, preparing to reply, but I cut off his words.  
  
"Two thousand years you stood idly at the side and watched the rape and the enslavement of my people. And now, when we stand up and fight, you take the side of Elrond? You dare to ask me to forsake revenge and bear our fate and the yolk of enslavement meekly?! I think not!"  
  
I see him shiver, and add harshly: "Stand down, wizard, or my bowmen will send you back whence you came. I doubt the powers will give you one more chance, will they?"  
  
He throws away his cloak, and his garb underneath is white. Light surrounds him.  
  
"No! I will not be deterred, and I will not allow this! Thranduil of Mirkwood, if you do not forsake this road, then you condemn yourself and all the lands to darkness. Saruman the traitor sends his forces your way as we speak. You are but a pawn in this game. Stand down! Or face the wrath of the Valar!"  
  
I know the tidings about Saruman; before we crossed the mountains, the Nazgul came to pay me their obeisance. I sent the lot of them against Lothlorien, with what power Dol Guldur could muster, but their lord, the Witchking, and his second in command, I sent off to Mordor. He will send the army of the Dark Land against the traitor Saruman. If Gondor intervenes, or Rohan, they'll be crushed. I care not what happens to them, but I will not allow to let a wizard take from me what I need to win this war.  
  
Not Saruman, and neither this one.  
  
I feel the power of the Ring, coursing though me. The memories of the former Ringlord are within my mind. Powerful Olorin of Lorien may be, but he who wore the name of Sauron had more power still. And now, that power is mine.  
  
"So do you claim. But are you really their envoy? Or is it the Ring of Fire you want, the one you wore so long and that my son took from you? And what do the powers have to say of Elrond? Stand aside, wizard, or we send you back to the very powers you claim you are speaking for."  
  
He raises his staff. His power reaches out. I signal my guards, and their bows are singing.  
  
The arrows never reach their target. They flare up in the air and catch fire, burning to ashes before they touch his frame. How did Legolas manage to slay this one?  
  
It does not matter, though. I draw my sword.  
  
Gandalf waits for me. Glamdring strikes out and is parried by my own sword. The wizard's staff is thrust at me. I raise my hand again.  
  
The staff stops in mid-air and shatters into thousand pieces. His sword grows hot within his hand. Gandalf shrinks back.(1)1  
  
Another thrust with my sword on his, and he drops his weapon. His face is drawn and pale. He retreats a few steps. The power inside me reaches out and forces him down. I sign my warriors to take him prisoner, and this time, he does not resist.  
  
"Bind him and keep him prisoner behind our lines," I tell the guards. "We do not need him interfering. But the Valar did send him back, and he might still have a purpose in their plans. Keep him alive, as long as he does not force you to kill him."  
  
He shudders. "Do not do this! Your wife, your sons, have gone to Mandos. If you stand down, and destroy the cursed Ring, you may meet them again. In Mandos' halls, or after they are released, it does not matter. But if you continue on this path, then you condemn yourself to darkness! You will be damned, and your name will be forever cursed, as was Feanor's!"  
  
I look at him.  
  
"All my sons, you say? And Legolas?"  
  
Gandalf shudders. "He broke his oath. He has condemned himself."  
  
I nod. "Then I can do no less."  
  
I turn, and they led him away. He speaks no more.  
  
Again I give my army the sign to attack. This time we will not stop. Part of my forces have moved forward through the trees. They will take on the troops waiting for us from behind.  
  
A horn is blown to our left. Battle is met.  
  
I bare my teeth. _So, now it has begun._  
  
Soon Elrond. Soon, now, we will meet again. But this time, you will pay.  
  
  
________________ o ________________  
  
  
When the fight is over, Elrond's house is burning. His library, the scrolls of lore, are aflame. I do not care; what I need to know of his skills, his plans and schemes, and all the knowledge he has of the spell, I can take from his mind. My warriors have been careful to take him alive, along with both his sons. He is scarcely wounded. It cost us much to achieve that, but I need him alive. I want to see him on his knees, to see him suffer. Death would be far too easy a fate for this fiend!  
  
We take care, though, to keep the flames from the healing wing, and from the place where Elrond keeps his herbs. The envoy I sent to Rivendell two months ago, who spoke with Legolas all night, has brought me back a good description of the house. My son was not the only slave they spoke to here, during their stay. And what I took from Elrond's memories confirmed it. It is not idle whim that leads me to spare those rooms. I need the herbs and ingredients he used for his foul art, for I shall make good use of them, before all this is over.  
  
There are no hostages left. We found their bodies. Elrond had killed them all, cast them down off a cliff, when this war and our march began. He showed me as much, already, in his mind, in his attempts to throw me off and to deter me. It did not help him, though. He has only worsened his fate, and that of all who had a part in this.  
  
Most of his warriors are dead, or badly wounded. He had the good sense to send off most of the women to the havens, when he knew I was coming. I do not mourn their loss, except it does limit my options for revenge. But then, I deem, in a way that is a blessing. I do not wish to explore how far I would go, had I those females in my grasp.  
  
Cirdan of the Havens, and Gildor and his Elves, both stayed out of this fight. They did not send me a message of neutrality, but neither did they intervene. Cirdan will have seen to it that the women escape to safety. He will be prepared to fight if I attack him, but that is not my intent. The Havens hold no lure for me. He had no part in subjugating us, and shall have no part in our revenge, save if he forces it upon himself. I sent a message to him, though, demanding he hand back the hostages in his keeping, and warning him not to harm them. He has yet to answer.  
  
Our own losses have been severe, as well, but I do not hear any complaints from my people. There is not one among my warriors who would not freely give his life to win this war, or fight with less than grim determination. Too long have we hungered for revenge, too long witnessed the enslavement of our people. Most of my nobles had on or more of their loved ones taken away, to a fate worse than death. Most of the others have lost friends, or loved ones, too. The loss of hostages has lasted like a vice on them all. They have been eager for this fight for centuries.  
  
They bring me one of Elrond's captains, the leader of his forces. I know this Elf, knew him well even before this madness began and our woods were first attacked by the forces of Rivendell and Lothlorien. Glorfindel. His golden hair – so like my own – is bloodied and matted; he is bleeding from many wounds. They told me he fought bravely, single-handedly killing many of my men, but finally gave himself up when he heard that Elrond and his children had been caught. Loyalty has always been this one's doom.  
  
And yet his first question is not about his lord, or for the dreadful twins. It is for my son.  
  
"If I may ask, where is Legolas, my lord? Is he still alive?"  
  
I resist the urge to kill him on his spot. I can hardly believe he would not know how long Legolas was abroad, and would believe there was still time for him; but his intent seems genuine enough.  
  
"He is not here," I force myself to say. "It took him all his strength to bring the ring to us. The curse was hard on him."  
  
He hesitates. "My lord, I would make you an offer. Maybe it is not yet too late. I... I can keep your son alive. If he is close, if there is still some time, then I can do it. And I would, if you were to agree to keep Elrond's sons unharmed."  
  
I stare at him.  
  
"That is all?" I ask, "What about Elrond himself?"  
  
He must have heard the hard edge in my voice, for he flinches. But then he merely bows his head.  
  
"No. Elrond has brought this reckoning on himself, and I know there will be no mercy for him now. But I plead you to spare his children. I plead you, spare his sons. In return, if I can, I'll save your son."  
  
He looks up again, and meets my gaze. What he sees in my face has him turn silent and grow pale. He shrinks under my glance. He knows what I will say before I speak; for I see the hope die in his eyes.  
  
Still, the words are like ashes in my mouth. "Legolas is dead. He died soon after my troops left our woods. I felt him pass."  
  
He bows his head. "I grieve to hear this."  
  
His voice sounds sincere. I know, my son betrayed this one's trust; I read the oath he was forced to give to him in Elrond's mind, and heard the sorrow about this betrayal in Legolas' delirious ramblings, before they lost all coherence. And yet he still seems genuinely mourning.  
  
Of course, that will not save him. For he has just admitted that he was one of those who designated themselves as my son's masters. Who took him as a plaything, just as that cursed Dúnadan had done.  
  
"Then, I suppose, you will be ready and prepared to pay," I tell him. "Were there any other of my people you helped to defile?"  
  
He merely shakes his head. He does not speak again.  
  
I give my guards a sign, and they take him away. His death will not be easy.  
  
Nor will be the fate of those he wanted to protect. I have something special in store for Elrond's sons. They will enjoy a taste of what they used to give to others. And so will their father.  
  
Elrond's daughter, Arwen, has escaped my grip. In Elrond's mind I read that he has sent her away by horseback to Cirdan when he knew we were marching, so that she might take ship over the Sea. If I know Cirdan, he will have sent her off by now, on the first ship he could launch. She will be safe.  
  
No matter. I had some plans for her, as well, but since she is gone, the twins will have to suffice. There is a lack in justice; three of my children have been stolen from me, and he will only have to give me two. But I will take what means to mete out justice that are available to me. And he will pay. As much as I can make him pay.  
  
I give my guards the command to begin the preparations. The time for reckoning has arrived.  
  
  
_____________ o __________  
  
  
When they bring Elrond, he stares at me in terror. He is tightly bound, his hands before him; but he could not escape even if they were free. He is under the power of his own ring, after all.  
  
His hatred is unbroken. His taunting and his curses have been constant company in my mind. But now, behind his hatred and his wrath, his mind clouds up in terror.  
  
"Good day, Elrond. At last, we meet again," I tell him. "I am sure you have been waiting for this moment as much as I have. Do you want to say anything for yourself?" I shrug. "You do realize, of course, that this is time for you to pay?"  
  
He scowls at me.  
  
"You cannot kill me! The spell still keeps you bound! You would condemn yourself!" he sneers.  
  
I look at him, without emotion. "And you believe I care?"  
  
I am already dead. But he will never understand this, and I do not take the time to explain.  
  
"I have need of that ring of yours. I do not expect you will give it up freely?"  
  
He closes his fist and jerks it away. I shrug.  
  
"I did not think so."  
  
There is an easy way to obtain Vilya from him. My sword sneaks out. A quick stroke, and I slice the hand from his body. His mental scream of despair, suddenly cut off, is sweet inside my mind. The guards hold him fast, preventing him from trying to snatch the severed hand back to himself. So great is his need for the thing of power, that he ignores the pain, the shock of blood-loss, just to get it back. But he cannot break free.  
  
I bow and take the ring from the dead fingers. The blue ice of this thing still burns my hand, but that small pain I easily endure. I have uses for its special power.  
  
But first, I command my guards to cauterize Elrond's bloody stump. I cannot have him bleed to death. I need him alive for what is to come.  
  
Now is the time for revenge.  
  
His wails accompany me while I leave the tent. There are further preparations to be made. And he shall have some time to think about what is to come. Revenge is a dish best served cold.  
  
I have had a long time for this dish to be prepared.  
  
  
_______________ o ____________  
  
  
When I next see Elrond, he is much weaker. He has had time to think and wonder. He has been isolated; I have seen to that. He does not know what happened to his people, or his sons. He is soon about to find out, though.  
  
He kneels before me, bound, chained to a post driven in the ground. Two guards stand close to ensure he cannot break free. His stump is fixed in a sling before him. The wound has been cauterized by a glowing blade, and has been carefully bandaged; it has been healing for two days. It must still hurt him, though. A third guard stands ready by the door of our tent. I decided to do this here, out in the camp, just as he himself had it done long ago; I refuse to use the burning ruins of his filthy house. He stares without comprehension. I cannot read his thoughts now, since he has lost his ring, but I can see he has yet to grasp what is about to happen. He watches the two poles rising from the ground without true understanding. Apparently the significance of this is lost to him, but then, I am sure he will recognize it soon.  
  
I smile at him.  
  
"It is time to pay," I tell him, "and I am sure you will agree that you owe me a lot. Although it seems to me that you still got the better part. But be that as it may..."  
  
They bring his sons.  
  
They have been wounded in the fight, but my men were ordered to capture them alive. And alive they are, though tightly bound and gagged. I have no need now for their foul-mouthed curses, although they will soon have their due chance to scream.  
  
Legolas, in the few times I saw him in years past, told me little of what these two forced on him, nor did he speak much of what was inflicted on him by his Dúnadan. He meant to spare me. But I have taken all I need to know from Elrond's mind, including what he did to Legolas just after he had him captured and enslaved. He took pains to let me see the way Legolas was broken, the way his sons and that cursed Dúnadan later used him as their slave. He gloried in the horrors of his deeds, threw them at me while he still thought he could escape. He hoped that it would break me, would destroy my strength.  
  
He was mistaken.  
  
And now, I have him bound, and his two sons are in my grasp as well. Impassively, I stare at them. These two are far from innocent. And now, it is their time to pay.  
  
I command that they be bound to the poles. Then I turn back to Elrond.  
  
He stares at me, horror in his eyes. Without his ring, I cannot hear his voice in my mind; but I can read his agony right there within his gaze. And it tastes sweet.  
  
"No," he stammers, pleads, begs, "no! You cannot do that!"  
  
I stare at him, my face carved of stone. I pay no heed to his words.  
  
"There was an _elleth_ , once, I am told. One of the hostages. You punished her for something my son did, in a most striking way. Time to pay up, don't you think? Now – whom of the two do you choose?"  
  
He pales at that, and shakes his head. So do his sons. I can see their faces from the corner of my eye. Their eyes are frightened.  
  
Elrond's face is white, frozen in horror.  
  
"You cannot do that!"  
  
I smile at him, baring my teeth. "I cannot? Watch!"  
  
My executioner – a volunteer, one of the Elves who has lost one of his loved ones as a hostage – steps forth. He holds a thin, sharp blade.  
  
Elrond screams. He struggles with his bonds. "No! No! Not them! Take me instead! Not them! Take me, it is me you want! Please..."  
  
I smile. How sweet, these words, coming from him. I recall them well, spoken another time – but by myself. They did not help me, then.  
  
Nor will they help him, now.  
  
"Oh, do not fear! For you will share their fate. But first, you will witness their punishment – and then, watch me put them under your precious spell."  
  
He screams, and begs, to no avail. I wait.  
  
"You will not choose? Then I shall decide myself. The left one shall lose his eyes, and the other one his tongue. I do not think they will have need for both in their future duties, although I realize it may spoil their uses. But I trust there will be enough left of them to amuse my guards."  
  
He wails. "No! Elrohir! Elladan!" He struggles with his bonds. So do his sons, but the bonds holding them are too tight. They can barely move.  
  
I pay them no heed. I give the executioner a sign. The deed is done.  
  
  
______________ o _______________  
  
  
It is a day later when I put the twins under the spell. I know how it is done. Elrond's house, and his library, are burnt, but I do not need the recipe; in my mental battles with Elrond, before I took his ring from him, I took the words and the ingredients of the foul curse directly from his mind. He will now have the chance to watch me execute it.  
  
The healing wing is damaged as well, but I have found enough of his herbs and tinctures in the remaining ruins to serve my needs. Some of his instruments of torture have survived as well. I shall see to it that they find good use, when I am done with this.  
  
I put the blue ring on. I shudder under its cold touch, the ice within my mind. Still, it is subject to the power of the One, and I force it under my will with ease.  
  
Despite the burning of the One Ring, now always present in my mind, despite the vast amount of power I inherited from Sauron, I still shudder under the malice, the blue, frozen ice, of Elrond's ring. There would be volunteers among my people who would feel honored if I gave the thing to them; they would gladly take the chance to put the spell on those who now should be given a taste of what they were doing to the hostages from the other side. They have as much reason to wish for revenge, as do I; I could rely on them.  
  
But it would also open up their minds to me and enslave their will. Despite the things I've done, I have not yet sunken far enough to subject them to such. I am glad now that I did not succeed with the Ring given to my son. Legolas' mind, laid open to my will, as Elrond's was under the Ring, is a thought that makes the bile raise in my throat. I hold tight to these last, thin shreds of qualms, because I know once I let go of them, there will be nothing left of me. And then, my people will face but another tyrant.  
  
I hope I can make sure it will not come to that.  
  
But those concerns are for another day. Today, I will exact revenge and cruelty.  
  
The ceremony is done in public, just as Elrond did to my son. There are ten volunteers among my guards who will take part, five for each of the twins, most of them with family lost as hostages. I would have given the honor to partake in the administering of the spell to any of our hostages held in Imladris, who volunteered for that; but there are none. Elrond had them killed, shortly after I conquered the ring.  
  
It did not help him.  
  
I have no experience on how much of the cursed ingredients to use for this vile deed, and frankly, I don't care. I have just taken the amount of the poison he used when he gave Legolas to Aragorn, and added a bit more, for good measure. I also use his instruments, those I found in his apothecary, so often used on hapless hostages before.  
  
I glance over to Elrond, bound and pale, watching in horror. His eyes are wide, his face is frozen. He is not begging yet, though I know he soon will be. His sons are bound tightly between two makeshift poles, bent over, and completely naked. They are barely conscious, still weakened from the mutilation of the day before. Still, they are aware enough to feel what is being done.  
  
It serves them right.  
  
And so, I begin. Even now, with the power of the One Ring coursing through me, I shudder from the blue ice of the other ring, while I touch it on their flesh, cast the spell over their bodies and their minds. But the deed itself feels good. How sweet to hear Elrond's impotent begging, and to know that now, he is the one being forced to watch...  
  
 _...something screams deep within me, trying to warn me, demands to know what I am doing. Screams at me to cease this, and to stop..._  
  
...but the voice is weak. The power of revenge is like strong wine within my head, the screams and pleads of Elrond spur me on. My body floods me with vile pleasure of revenge, and hatred burns deep in me. I thrust on.  
  
When it is done, I step back and give the enslaved sons of Elrond over to the guards. They wail and scream; they are barely conscious anymore, but the spell keeps them within their bodies. I do not care if they survive the night.  
  
I do care, however, that Elrond is forced to witness their fate. I command the guards who hold him in his bonds to take care he watches. It is the last thing he will ever see. Once it is done, he will lose his own eyes.  
  
And afterwards, I will have him gelded. He needs to know that he will never force himself on another Elf, again.  
  
I am aware that in doing this, I condemn myself to death as well; for there will be no one who can feed the spell when my time of need arrives, as it must when the spell runs its course. From this day on, my time is limited. But I would rather face certain death, than have Elrond touch my flesh once more; not even to extend the spell so someone else can feed it. I will not allow him to defile any Elf ever again.  
  
Nor will I do so, myself. I shudder at my deed. Now that revenge is done, my sanity returns. Even though the voice of the Ring is strong inside my head, and tells me what I did was right, my flesh shrinks at the thought of what those I have loved and lost would say if they could see me now. And I am not yet so numbed as to be blind to the cautious gazes and frozen faces of my guards and my retainers, those of them whom I did not draw in on this mad plunge into the abyss of revenge.  
  
Nor am I already insane enough to listen to the voice of paranoia, which tells me to subjugate those who dare to doubt my commands and decisions. I feel the voice of the Ring, urging me to force them to agree, yet I ignore it.  
  
I do not know how long I will be able to resist.  
  
Still. It was about justice, and justice is done.  
  
It is enough.  
  
  
_______________ o ________________  
  
  
  
  
\-- TBC –  
  
  
Notes:  
  
1) The outcome of the fight between Thranduil and Gandalf, and the shattering of Gandalf's staff, are directly based on the already quoted passage from HoME, "The War of the Ring" ( London 1990, HarperCollinsPublishers Paperback edition, 2002, P. 401), about the supposed powers of the new Ringlord: "And he could not be slain." I take this to mean that Thranduil, having conquered the Ring, indeed has the same power as Sauron would have, there. For those who doubt he could stand against Gandalf, I beg you to recall that in the book, and movie, the Lord of the Nazgul himself was capable to shatter Gandalf's staff. Would not he who conquered the Ring and sucked Sauron's power into himself, be at least as powerful as that?  
  
Special thanks go to Randy for providing the idea how exactly Thranduil would exact revenge on Elrond, and suggesting that it would resemble the fate of that poor mutilated _elleth_ in my main story (Mael-Gûl, chapter xx: Past and Present, I: Enslaved). He is, as ever, to the point. The idea is used here with his gracious permission.


End file.
